The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss Read Free Book Online

fingers. He watched them intently, as if expecting them to do something on their own. Then he lowered them to his lap, one hand lightly cupping the other, and returned to watching the fire. Expressionless, motionless, he sat until there was nothing left but grey ash and dully glowing coals.
    As he was undressing for bed, the fire flared. The red light traced faint lines across his body, across his back and arms. All the scars were smooth and silver, streaking him like lightning, like lines of gentle remembering. The flare of flame revealed them all briefly, old wounds and new. All the scars were smooth and silver except one.
    The fire flickered and died. Sleep met him like a lover in an empty bed.
    Â 
    The travelers left early the next morning. Bast tended to their needs, explaining his master’s knee was swollen quite badly and he didn’t feel up to taking the stairs so early in the day. Everyone understood except for the sandy-haired merchant’s son, who was too groggy to understand much of anything. The guards exchanged smiles and rolled their eyes while the tinker gave an impromptu sermon on the subject of temperance. Bast recommended several unpleasant hangover cures.
    After they left, Bast tended to the inn, which was no great chore, as there were no customers. Most of his time was spent trying to find ways to amuse himself.
    Some time after noon, Kote came down the stairs to find him crushing walnuts on the bar with a heavy leather-bound book. “Good morning, Reshi.”
    â€œGood morning, Bast,” Kote said. “Any news?”
    â€œThe Orrison boy stopped by. Wanted to know if we needed any mutton.”
    Kote nodded, almost as if he had been suspecting the news. “How much did you order?”
    Bast made a face. “I hate mutton, Reshi. It tastes like wet mittens.”
    Kote shrugged and made his way to the door. “I’ve got some errands to run. Keep an eye on things, will you?”
    â€œI always do.”
    Outside the Waystone Inn the air lay still and heavy on the empty dirt road that ran through the center of town. The sky was a featureless grey sheet of cloud that looked as if it wanted to rain but couldn’t quite work up the energy.
    Kote walked across the street to the open front of the smithy. The smith wore his hair cropped short and his beard thick and bushy. As Kote watched, he carefully drove a pair of nails through a scythe blade’s collar, fixing it firmly onto a curved wooden handle. “Hello Caleb.”
    The smith leaned the scythe up against the wall. “What can I do for you, Master Kote?”
    â€œDid the Orrison boy stop by your place too?” Caleb nodded. “They still losing sheep?” Kote asked.
    â€œActually, some of the lost ones finally turned up. Torn up awful, practically shredded.”
    â€œWolves?” Kote asked.
    The smith shrugged. “It’s the wrong time of year, but what else would it be? A bear? I guess they’re just selling off what they can’t watch over properly, them being shorthanded and all.”
    â€œShorthanded?”
    â€œHad to let their hired man go because of taxes, and their oldest son took the king’s coin early this summer. He’s off fighting the rebels in Menat now.”
    â€œMeneras,” Kote corrected gently. “If you see their boy again, let him know I’d be willing to buy about three halves.”
    â€œI’ll do that.” The smith gave the innkeeper a knowing look. “Is there anything else?”
    â€œWell,” Kote looked away, suddenly self-conscious. “I was wondering if you have any rod-iron lying around,” he said, not meeting the smith’s eye. “It doesn’t have to be anything fancy mind you. Just plain old pig-iron would do nicely.”
    Caleb chuckled. “I didn’t know if you were going to stop by at all. Old Cob and the rest came by day before yesterday.” He walked over to a workbench