The Name of the Wind: Chapters 57–72

“I... I think I understand, Reshi,” Bast said in conciliatory tones.

“It’s just something I noticed, Reshi. All the women in your story are beautiful. I can’t gainsay you as a whole, as I’ve never seen any of them. But this one I did see. Her nose was a little crooked. And if we’re being honest here, her face was a little narrow for my taste. She wasn’t a perfect beauty by any means, Reshi. I should know. I’ve made some study of these things.”

Her dark hair fell across her face and she brushed it away absentmindedly.

“Off and on,” I said flippantly as I sat down.

“Then I’m in your debt,” I said to him, with a deferential nod.

I meant it to seem witty, but the words seemed to turn boorish as soon as they left my mouth.

“Is it true that the Modegan nobility regard haggling as a contemptible activity for those of any highborn station?”

Diplomacy is a large part of being a trouper, and a large portion of diplomacy is adherence to title and rank.

I had other debts to settle as well, and as much as I wanted to be out from under Devi’s thumb, I didn’t relish starting the semester without a bit of coin in my pocket.

“I know. I settled here at first because it was cheap. Now I feel obliged to stay because my customers know to find me here.”

I also spent a considerable amount of time on the road to Imre, usually under the excuse of visiting Threpe or enjoying the camaraderie of the other musicians at the Eolian.

I asked, unable to keep my voice entirely free of desperation.

“Demonstrate the patience and prudence which you have heretofore been lacking,” Lorren said flatly, then looked down at the book that lay open on his desk.

“Re’lar Ambrose, in the future you will refrain from wasting our time with spurious charges.”

I studied my artificing more doggedly than anything else.

“Kilvin would probably call it an atmospherically activated incendiary action.”

“In addition to being highly corrosive,” Kilvin said, “in its gaseous state the reagent is flammable. Once it warms sufficiently, it will burn on contact with air. The heat that this produces can cause a cascading exothermic reaction.”

"But let us continue in our list. Iris? Too gaudy. Thistle, too distant. Violet, too brief. Trillium? FImmm, there’s a thing. A fair flower. Doesn’t take to cultivation. The texture of the petals ...”

“You seek to bend me to your will, but it will not work. Your flattery is naught to me but wind!”

She watched me for a moment, as if to make sure my tirade was complete.

I started to say something but he cut me off with more than a hint of exasperation.

I let my shoulders slump, dejected.

Afterward, you want to show your appreciation, but you don’t have the wherewithal to make a substantial gift of money like some wealthy merchant or noble.

I kept my tone carefully jovial as I glanced up at him to gauge his reaction.

My mind raced as I tried to think of a tactful way to extricate myself.

I smiled, “Deoch, my heart is made of stronger stuff than glass. When she strikes she’ll find it strong as iron-bound brass, or gold and adamant together mixed. Don’t think I am unaware, some startled deer to stand transfixed by hunter’s horns. It’s she who should take care, for when she strikes, my heart will make a sound so beautiful and bright that it can’t help but bring her back to me in winged flight.”

I even saw Fela off in the corner of the shop, chipping carefully away at a piece of obsidian the size of a large loaf of bread.

“More reputable sources claim I used a piece of bar-iron from a nearby table.”

My flash burns were minor but 
incessantly painful.

I sullenly counted my money as I left the cobbler’s shop: three jots and a drab.

As you are not playing downstairs, or peacefully abed, a cynical person might wonder what you are doing at this late hour, and if you are up to no good.

“With these things as collateral, and the possibility of access to the Archives, I can loan you a dozen talents.”

“Very well,” he said, letting all the ingratiating charm fall from his voice.

“Someone half clever might dub you Pitch or Scuttle, ill-favored names. Or Slate, a sedentary name. Heaven forbid you end up Blackie, that’s an ill-fitting name for a prince like you.”

My father always talked to new horses in this way, in a steady calming litany.

The big black lowered his head and nuzzled me.

I figured we’d come about thirty miles, and the sun wasn’t even fully at zenith.

It wore a crude straw hat and a pair of sackcloth pants.

The fellow sounded rather sinister to me, like a fugitive from the law or someone hiding from his family.

“Fair enough,” she said at last with an almost imperceptible nod.