The Name of the Wind

I didn’t need to pretend to be horrified. “I’m sorry I didn’t properly introduce myself” I held out my hand. “My name is Kvothe, I am a trouper and one of the Edema Ruh. Never on my most desperate day would I lie to a tinker.”

The tinker shook my hand. “Well,” he said, slightly taken aback, “my sincere apologies to you and your family. It’s rare to see one of your folk alone on the road.” He looked the horse over critically. “All the way from Imre, you say?” I nodded. “That’s what, almost sixty miles? Hell of a ride....” He looked at me with a knowing smile. “How are your legs?”

I grinned back at him. “Let’s just say I’ll be glad to be on my own feet again. He’s good for another ten miles I’d guess. But I can’t say the same for myself.”

The tinker looked over the horse again and gave a gusty sigh. “Well, as I said, you’ve got me over a bit of a barrel. How much do you want for him?”

“Well,” I said. “Keth-Selhan here’s a full-blood Khershaen, and his color is lovely, you have to admit. Not a patch on him but isn’t black. Not a white whisker—”

The tinker burst out laughing. “I take it back,” he said. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” I said a little stiffly

The tinker gave me an odd look. “Not a white whisker, no.” He nodded past me toward Selhan’s hindquarters. “But if he’s all black then I’m Oren Velciter.”

I turned to look and saw that Keth-Selhan’s left hind foot had a distinct white sock that went halfway up to his hock. Stupefied, I walked back and bent down to look. It wasn’t a clean white, more of a washed-out grey. I could smell the faint odor of the stream we had splashed through on the last leg of our journey: solvents.

“That shim bastard,” I said incredulously. “He sold me a dyed horse.”

“Didn’t the name tip you off?” the tinker chuckled. “Keth-Selhan? Lord boy, someone’s been thumbing their nose at you.”

“His name means twilight,” I said.

The tinker shook his head, “Your Siaru is rusty. Ket-Selem would be ‘first-night.’ Selhan means ‘sock.’ His name is one sock.”

I thought back to the horse-trader’s reaction when I’d picked the name. No wonder the fellow had seemed so disconcerted. No wonder he had dropped the price so quickly and easily. He thought I knew his little secret.

The tinker laughed at my expression and clapped me on the back. “Don’t sweat it, lad. It happens to the best of us from time to time,” he turned away and began to rummage through his bundles. “I think I have something you’ll like. Let me offer you a trade.” He turned around and held out something black and gnarled like a piece of driftwood.

I took it from him and looked it over. It was heavy and cold to the touch. “A lump of slag iron?” I asked. “Are you out of magic beans?”

The tinker held out a pin in his other hand. He held it about a handspan away then let go. Instead of falling, the pin snapped to the side and clung to the smooth blob of black iron.

I drew in an appreciative breath. “A loden-stone? I’ve never seen one of these.”

“Technically, it’s a Trebon-stone,” he said matter-of-factly “As it’s never been near Loden, but you’re near enough. There’s all manner of people who would be interested in that beauty down Imre-way ...”

I nodded absently as I turned it over in my hands. I’d always wanted to see a drawstone, ever since I was a child. I pulled the pin away, feeling the strange attraction it had to smooth black metal. I marveled. A piece of star-iron in my hand. “How much do you figure it’s worth?” I asked.

The tinker sucked his teeth a little. “Well I’m figuring right here and now it’s worth just about one full-blooded Khershaen pack mule....”

I turned it over in my hand, pulled the pin away and let it snap back again. “Trouble is tinker, I put myself into debt with a dangerous woman in order to buy this horse. If I don’t sell it well, I’m going to be in a desperate way.”

He nodded. “Piece of sky-iron of that size, if you take less than eighteen talents you’re cutting a hole in your own purse. Jewelers will buy it, or rich folk who want it for the novelty.” He tapped the side of his nose. “But if you head to the University you’ll do better. Artificers have a great love for loden-stone. Alchemists too. If you find one in the right mood you’ll get more.”

It was a good deal. Manet had taught me loden-stone was quite valuable and difficult to come by. Not only for its galvanic properties, but because pieces of sky-iron like this often had rare metals mingled with the iron. I held out my hand. “I’m willing to make it a deal.”

We shook hands solemnly, then just as the tinker began to reach for the reins, I asked, “And what will you give me for his tack and saddle?”