The Name of the Wind

“Of course,” she said coolly. “But I don’t feel particularly inclined to give out that sort of information.” She tilted her head quizzically. “By the way, today’s Cendling, isn’t it? Don’t you need your tuition by noon tomorrow?”

“I’ll find them on my own then,” I snapped.

“I’m sure you will, clever boy like you.” Devi waved me away with the back of her hand. “Feel free to let yourself out. Think fond thoughts of Devi in two months’ time, when some thug is kicking the teeth out of your pretty little head.”

After leaving Devi’s I paced the streets of Imre, restless and irritated, trying to get my thoughts in order. Trying to think of a way around my problem.

I had a decent chance of paying off the two-talent loan. I hoped to move up the ranks in the Fishery soon. Once I was allowed to pursue my own projects, I could start earning real money. All I needed was to stay in classes long enough. It was just a matter of time.

That’s really what I was borrowing: time. One more term. Who knew what opportunities might present themselves in the next two months?

But even as I tried to talk myself into it, I knew the truth. It was a bad idea. It was begging for trouble. I would swallow my pride and see if Wil or Sim or Sovoy could lend me the eight jots I needed. I sighed, resigning myself to a term of sleeping outside and scavenging meals where I could find them. At least it couldn’t be worse than my time in Tarbean.

I was just about to head back to the University when my restless pacing took me by a pawnshop’s window. I felt the old ache in my fingers....

“How much for the seven-string lute?” I asked. To this day I do not remember actually entering the store.

“Four talents even,” the owner said brightly. I guessed he was new to the job, or drunk. Pawnbrokers are never cheerful, not even in rich cities like Imre.

“Ah,” I said, not bothering to hide my disappointment. “Could I take a look at it?”

He handed it over. It wasn’t much to look at. The grain of the wood was uneven, the varnish rough and scratched. Its frets were made of gut and badly in need of replacing, but that was of little concern to me, as I typically played fretless anyway. The bowl was rosewood, so the sound of it wouldn’t be terribly subtle. But on the other hand, rosewood would carry better in a crowded taproom, cutting through the murmur of idle conversation. I tapped the bowl with a finger and it gave off a resonant hum. Solid, but not pretty. I began to tune it so I would have an excuse to hold it a while longer.

“I might be able to go as low as three and five,” the man behind the counter said.

My ears pricked up as I heard something in his tone: desperation. It occurred to me that an ugly, used lute might not sell very well in a city full of nobility and prosperous musicians. I shook my head. “The strings are old.” Actually they were fine, but I hoped he didn’t know that.

“True,” he said, reassuring me of his ignorance, “but strings are cheap.”

“I suppose,” I said doubtfully. With a deliberate plan, I set each of the strings just a hair out of tune with the others. I struck a chord and listened to the grating sound. I gave the lute’s neck a sour, speculative look. “I think the neck might be cracked.” I strummed a minor chord that sounded even less appealing. “Does that sound cracked to you?” I strummed it again, harder.

“Three and two?” He asked hopefully.

“It’s not for me,” I said, as if correcting him. “It’s for my little brother. The little bastard won’t leave mine alone.”

I strummed again and grimaced. “I may not like the little sprit very much, but I’m not cruel enough to buy him a lute with a sour neck.” I paused significantly When nothing was forthcoming, I prompted him. “Not for three and two.”

“Three even?” he said hopefully.

To all appearances I held the lute casually, carelessly. But in my heart I was clutching it with a white-knuckled fierceness. I cannot hope for you to understand this. When the Chandrian killed my troupe, they destroyed every piece of family and home I had ever known. But in some ways it had been worse when my father’s lute was broken in Tarbean. It had been like losing a limb, an eye, a vital organ. Without my music, I had wandered Tarbean for years, half-alive, like a crippled veteran or one of the walking dead.

“Listen,” I said to him frankly. “I’ve got two and two for you.” I pulled out my purse. “You can take it, or this ugly thing can gather dust on a high shelf for the next ten years.”

I met his eye, careful to keep my face from showing how badly I needed it. I would do anything to keep this lute. I would dance naked in the snow. I would clutch at his legs, shaking and frantic, promising him anything, anything....

I counted out two talents and two jots onto the counter between us, nearly all of the money I had saved for this term’s tuition. Each coin made a hard click as I pressed it to the table.