The Name of the Wind Read Online Free Page B

Martin, who had been trying to dig a well inside his own house for years now.
    Still, each of them bought a piece of cold-wrought iron from the smith, heavy as they could swing, and none of them said what they were thinking. Instead they complained that the roads were bad and getting worse. They talked about merchants, and deserters, and levies, and not enough salt to last the winter. They reminisced that three years ago no one would have even thought of locking their doors at night, let alone barring them.
    The conversation took a downward turn from there, and even though none of them said what they were thinking, the evening ended on a grim note. Most evenings did these days, times being what they were.

CHAPTER TWO
A Beautiful Day
    I T WAS ONE OF those perfect autumn days so common in stories and so rare in the real world. The weather was warm and dry, ideal for ripening a field of wheat or corn. On both sides of the road the trees were changing color. Tall poplars had gone a buttery yellow while the shrubby sumac encroaching on the road was tinged a violent red. Only the old oaks seemed reluctant to give up the summer, and their leaves remained an even mingling of gold and green.
    Everything said, you couldn’t hope for a nicer day to have a half dozen ex-soldiers with hunting bows relieve you of everything you owned.
    â€œShe’s not much of a horse, sir,” Chronicler said. “One small step above a dray, and when it rains she—”
    The man cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Listen friend, the king’s army is paying good money for anything with four legs and at least one eye. If you were stark mad and riding a hobbyhorse down the road, I’d still take it off you.”
    Their leader had an air of command about him. Chronicler guessed he had been a low ranking officer not long ago. “Just hop down,” he said seriously. “We’ll get this done with and you can be on your way.”
    Chronicler climbed down from his horse. He had been robbed before and knew when there was nothing to be gained by discussion. These fellows knew their business. No energy was wasted on bravado or idle threats. One of them looked over the horse, checking hooves, teeth, and harness. Two others went through his saddlebags with a military efficiency, laying all his worldly possessions out on the ground. Two blankets, a hooded cloak, the flat leather satchel, and his heavy, well-stocked travelsack.
    â€œThat’s all of it, Commander,” one of the men said. “Except for about twenty pounds of oats.”
    The commander knelt down and opened the flat leather satchel, peering inside.
    â€œThere’s nothing but paper and pens in there,” Chronicler said.
    The commander turned to look backward over his shoulder. “You a scribe then?”
    Chronicler nodded. “It’s my livelihood, sir. And no real use to you.”
    The man looked through the satchel, found it to be true, and set it aside. Then he upended the travelsack onto Chronicler’s spread cloak and poked idly through the contents.
    He took most of Chronicler’s salt and a pair of bootlaces. Then, much to the scribe’s dismay, he picked up the shirt Chronicler had bought back in Linwood. It was fine linen dyed a deep, royal blue, too nice for traveling. Chronicler hadn’t even had the chance to wear it yet. He sighed.
    The commander left everything else lying on the cloak and got to his feet. The others took turns going through Chronicler’s things.
    The commander spoke up, “You only have one blanket, don’t you Janns?” One of the men nodded. “Take one of his then, you’ll need a second before winter’s through.”
    â€œHis cloak is in better shape than mine, sir.”
    â€œTake it, but leave yours. The same for you, Witkins. Leave your old tinderbox if you’re taking his.”
    â€œI lost mine, sir,” Witkins said. “Else I would.”
    The