The Name of the Wind (The Kingkiller Chronicle, #1)

by Patrick Rothfuss

Attend to me as I draw back the curtain to reveal a long-kept minstrel’s secret. . . . Let’s say you are out at an inn. You listen to me play. You laugh, cry, and generally marvel at my craft. Afterward, you want to show your appreciation, but you don’t have the wherewithal to make a substantial gift of money like some wealthy merchant or noble. So you offer to buy me a drink. I, however, have already had a drink. Or several drinks. Or perhaps I am trying to keep a clear head. Do I refuse your offer? Of course not. That would just waste a valuable opportunity and most likely leave you feeling snubbed. Instead I graciously accept and ask bartender for a Greysdale mead. Or a sounten. Or a particular vintage of white wine. The name of the drink isn’t the important thing. The important thing is that the drink doesn’t really exist. The bartender gives me water. You pay for the drink, I thank you graciously, and everyone walks away happy. Later, the bartender, the tavern, and the musician share your money three ways. Better yet, some sophisticated drinking establishments allow you to keep drinks as a sort of credit for future use. The Eolian was just such a place.