“Thought so.” He deftly rolled a pair of stockings onto my feet, as if all his customers came in barefoot. He tucked my feet into a pair of something black with buckles. “How’s those feel? Put a little weight on to make sure.”
“I—”
“They’re tight. I thought so. Nothing more annoying that a shoe that pinches.” He stripped me out of them, and into another pair, quick as a whip. “How about these?” They were a deep purple and made of velvet or felt.
“They—”
“Not quite what you’re looking for? Don’t blame you really, wear out terrible fast. Nice color though, good for chasing the ladies.” He patted a new pair onto my feet. “How about these?”
They were a simple brown leather, and fit like he’d measured my feet before he’d made them. I pressed my foot to the ground, and it hugged me. I had forgotten how wonderful a good shoe can feel. “How much?” I asked apprehensively.
Instead of answering he stood, and started searching the shelves with his eyes. “You can tell a lot about a person by their feet,” he mused. “Some men come in here, smiling and laughing, shoes all clean and brushed, socks all powdered up. But when the shoes are off, their feet smell just fearsome. Those are the people that hide things. They’ve got bad smelling secrets and they try to hide ’em, just like they try to hide their feet.”
He turned to look at me. “It never works though. Only way to stop your feet from smelling is to let them air out a bit. Could be the same thing with secrets. I don’t know about that, though. I just know about shoes.”
He began to look through the clutter of his workbench. “Some of these young men from the court come in, fanning their faces and moaning about the latest tragedy. But their feet are so pink and soft. You know they’ve never walked anywhere on their own. You know they’ve never really been hurt.”
He finally found what he was looking for, holding up a pair of shoes similar to the pair I wore. “Here we go. These were my Jacob’s when he was your age.” He sat on his stool and unlaced the pair of shoes I was wearing.
“Now you,” he continued, “have old soles for a boy so young: scars, calluses. Feet like these could run barefoot all day on stone and not need shoes. A boy your age only gets these feet one way.”
He looked up at me, making it a question. I nodded.
He smiled and lay a hand on my shoulder. “How do they feel?”
I stood up to test them. If anything, they were more comfortable than the newer pair for being a little broken in.
“Now, this pair,” he waved the shoes he held, “are new. They haven’t been walked a mile, and for new shoes like these I charge a talent, maybe a talent and two.” He pointed at my feet. “Those shoes, on the other hand, are used, and I don’t sell used shoes.”
He turned his back on me and started to tidy his workbench rather aimlessly, humming to himself. It took me a second to recognize the tune: “Leave the Town, Tinker.”
I knew that he was trying to do me a favor, and a week ago I would have jumped at the opportunity for free shoes. But for some reason I didn’t feel right about it. I quietly gathered up my things and left a pair of copper jots on his stool before I left.
Why? Because pride is a strange thing, and because generosity deserves generosity in return. But mostly because it felt like the right thing to do, and that is reason enough.
“Four days. Six days if raining.”
Roent was the third wagoneer I’d asked about going north to Imre, the town nearest the University. He was a thick-bodied Cealdish man with a fierce black beard that hid most of his face. He turned away and barked curses in Siaru at a man loading a wagon with bolts of cloth. When he spoke his native language, he sounded like an angry rockslide.
His rough voice lowered to a rumble as he turned back to me. “Two coppers. Jots. Not pennies. You can ride in a wagon if there is space. You can sleep underneath at night if you want. You eat in the evening with us. Lunch is just bread. If a wagon gets stuck, you help push.”
There was another pause while he shouted at the men. There were three wagons being packed with trade goods while the fourth was achingly familiar, one of the wheeled houses I had spent most of my early life riding. Roent’s wife, Reta, sat in the front of that wagon. Her mien wavered from severe, when she watched the men loading the wagons, to smiling when she spoke with a girl standing nearby.
I assumed the girl was a passenger like myself. She was my age, perhaps a year older, but a year makes a great deal of difference at that time of life. The Tahl have a saying about children of our age.
She was dressed practically for traveling, pants and shirt, and was just young enough for it not to seem improper. Her bearing was such that if she had been a year older, I would have been forced to see her as a lady. As it was, when she spoke with Reta she moved back and forth between a genteel grace and a childlike exuberance. She had long, dark hair, and....
Simply said, she was beautiful. It had been a long time since I had seen anything beautiful.
Roent followed my gaze and continued. “Everyone helps set camp at night. Everyone takes a turn watching. You fall asleep during your watch, you get left behind. You eat with us, whatever my wife cooks. You complain, you get left behind. You walk too slow, you get left behind. You bother the girl ...” He ran a hand through his thick dark beard. “Bad things happen.”
Hoping to turn his thoughts in a different direction, I spoke up, “When will the wagons be done loading?”
“Two hours,” he said with a grim certainty, as if defying the workers to contradict him.
One of the men stood upright atop a wagon, shading his eyes with a hand. He called out, raising his voice over the sound of horses, wagons, and men that filled the square. “Don’t let him scare you off, kid. He’s decent enough after all the growling.” Roent pointed a stern finger, and the man turned back to his work.
I hardly needed to be convinced. A man who travels with his wife is usually to be trusted. Besides, the price was fair, and he was leaving today. I took this opportunity to pull a pair of jots from my purse and hold them out to Roent.
He turned to me. “Two hours.” He held up thick fingers to make his point. “You are late, you get left behind.”
I nodded solemnly. “
Roent’s great shaggy eyebrows went up. He recovered quickly and gave a quick nod that was almost a small bow. I looked around the square, trying to get my bearings.
“Someone’s full of surprises.” I turned around to see the worker who had shouted to me from the wagon. He held out his hand. “Derrik.”
I shook his hand, feeling awkward. It had been so long since I’d made simple conversation with someone that I felt strange and hesitant. “Kvothe.”
Derrik put his hands behind him and stretched his back with a grimace. He stood head and shoulders taller than me, twenty or so, tall and blond. “You gave Roent a bit of a turn there. Where’d you learn to speak Siaru?”
“An arcanist taught me a little,” I explained. I watched as Roent went to speak to his wife. The dark-haired girl looked in my direction and smiled. I looked away, not knowing what to make of it.
He shrugged. “I’ll leave you to fetch your things, then. Roent’s all growl and not much gruff, but he won’t wait once the wagons are packed.”
I nodded, even though my “things” were nonexistent. I did have a little shopping to do. They say you can find anything in Tarbean if you have enough money. For the most part, they are right.
I made my way down the stairs to Trapis’ basement. It felt strange to make the trip wearing shoes. I was used to the cool damp of stone underfoot when I came to pay a visit.
As I made my way down the short hallway, a boy in rags emerged from the inner rooms holding a small winter apple. He pulled up short when he saw me, then scowled, his eyes narrow and suspicious. Looking down,
