The Book of Dzur: Dzur ; Jhegaala

by Steven Brust

  I realized that I’d been standing there for quite a while, not saying anything. “No,” I said. “The Coven, where does it meet?”

  “East of town, in the woods. I don’t know exactly. We come to a place near the creek, then they blindfold us and take us one at a time.”

  Yeah, they would.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m done with you. Feel free to tell anyone you want about my visit, and about the questions I asked. No doubt someone will be angry and some people will come after me. When they do, I’ll kill them. Then I’ll come back and kill you. If you think that’s a good argument for keeping your mouth shut, you’re probably right, but it’s up to you. In any case, I would suggest you remain here and not leave the house or make a sound for at least an hour or so, but that’s also up to you. Meanwhile, rest well.”

  I put my knife away and walked out of the room. The fellow on the floor was now snoring. I gave serious consideration to kicking him, but didn’t; I went past him, out the door, and into the star-studded night of Fenario.

  “Well, Loiosh?”

  “Well, what, Boss? If you want to summon a demon, I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think I’m up for that. That was a lot of information. I have to think about it, about what it means. If anything. Loiosh, didn’t Sethra once say something about a lie being temporary? How did she put it?”

  “I don’t remember. But, Boss, I don’t think the lie is your problem.”

  “No, I guess not. It’s just another thing to add to the list. It’s getting to be a pretty long list, Loiosh. And I am going to find out the name that needs to go at the top of it.”

  “Left here. There, that light on your right is the inn.”

  I made it back without mishap. I had to bang on the door to convince the host to let me in. I could have picked the lock in the dark, but I had no interest in letting it be known that I could do that. He glowered at me as he opened the door; I gave him a warm smile and went past him up to my room, where I stripped off my outer garments, and threw myself onto the bed. The last thing I remember was Loiosh and Rocza, perched next to each other on the chair, twining their necks around each other. It reminded me of something painful, but I fell asleep before I could remember exactly what it was.

  9

  BORAAN: Nothing is con fusing once the facts are assembled and the proper conclusions drawn.

  LEFITT: Nonsense, darling. All the facts and conclusions about a confusing situation simply confirm the confusion.

  BORAAN: You think so?

  LEFITT: I’m afraid I do, though I do hate to dispute your lovely epigram.

  BORAAN: Your lovely epigram, my dear. I was quoting you during the affair of the Fisherman’s Lamp.

  LEFITT: Yes, my love, only I said it after we had solved the crime.

  —Miersen, Six Parts Water

  Day Two, Act II, Scene 3

  I’d forgotten to close the shutters again, and so woke with the Furnace burning painfully into my eyes. I cursed for a little while, then got up and closed them, because it is better to close the shutters than curse the light, or however that goes. I tried to sleep some more but it didn’t take.

  I dressed and went downstairs for coffee. The host’s wife was behind the bar, and she gave me a look that indicated she wouldn’t have been there if her husband hadn’t been woken up in the middle of the night to let me into the inn. But she didn’t say anything, so I kept my thoughts on the subject to myself and just drank my coffee: bitter on the tongue, but it works just as well as good klava when it hits the belly. That’s the difference, I guess: klava is a pleasure, coffee is merely physic.

  Pretty effective physic, though. As it started working, my attitude got a little better—or, rather, less bad—and when I got some toasted bread and cheese from her I tipped her well. This cheese, unlike what I’d had last night, turned out to be sharp and musky and neither crumbly nor salty, which I could have considered a reward from the gods for my generosity. I fed some to Loiosh and Rocza, who seemed to agree with my preference.

  “Got a plan for today, Boss?”

  “Part of one. I’m going to sit here and find out if our friend from last night kept her mouth shut.”

  “What if she didn’t?”

  “Then I will engage in acts of violence and mayhem.”

  “Oh, good. I’ve been missing those.”

  A little later the host came down and walked up to me. For a minute, I thought I was going to be evicted, and wondered how I’d respond, but he put a folded and sealed paper in front of me, saying, “This arrived for you from His Lordship,” and stalked off with no other remarks.

  I opened it. In four times as many words as it should have taken, it told the “Daylord” (whatever that might mean) to see that I was given full access to the mill and treated with all courtesy due to an honored friend of &c &c and to the boat crew to provide, to and from, transportation such as was available and befitting &c &c.

  “Well, there it is, Boss. We going to visit it today?”

  “Maybe. Not right away.” I folded up the paper and put it away for later consideration.

  I drank enough coffee to convince myself that no group of enraged citizens or dour law-enforcement officials were going to charge into the inn with the intention of pulling me out to face justice for my criminal actions of the night before. I think I was relieved.

  “Okay,” I said. “That’s enough. Let’s take a walk.”

  “Anywhere in particular?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get there.”

  “That means no, which means we’re going to the dock.”

  “Shut up.”

  I headed for the dock, and stood looking out at the mill, churning away, smoke rising and dissipating and meandering off to the northeast. The smell wasn’t quite as bad today. I wondered if there were people living to the northeast, and how they were liking the breeze about now.

  “What is, Boss?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You muttered ‘trap.’”

  “Oh, did I?”

  The mill across the river was squat and long and built of stone, and I didn’t see one single Verra-be-damned window in the place.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know if it is, but it looks like one.”

  “I see what you mean. Let’s not go there.”

  “Not until we know more, anyway.”

  It was well before noon, and the Furnace cast long shadows of the houses to my left. My grandfather had once mentioned something called “Shadowreading,” which involved somehow seeing portents and omens in the shape of shadows of various objects at certain times. I never learned much about it, because he thought it was nonsense.

  I wondered what he’d tell me about this. He approved of the idea of me finding out something about my mother; I know because he said so, and because he gave me that note. But I’d dearly love to hear his thoughts on “light” and “dark” forms of the Art, and all of the strange politics of this place.

  He’d tell me not to be distracted by the shadows, but to concentrate on the target. And I’d tell him that all I could see were the shadows. And he’d point out that shadows need a light source, and a real object to define the shape.

  Well, okay, Noish-pa. I’ll describe the shadows, and you tell me what object has a shape like that, eh? We have a Count who owns a paper mill. We have a family killed because I was asking questions about them. We have a coachman killed because he answered the questions. We have Dahni, who carries on conversations in the dark and wants to recruit me to his side, but won’t say which side is his, or even what the sides are. We have Orbahn, in the bright blue vest, who gives me vague hints and warnings and then vanishes. We have a Merchants’ Guild that runs the entire town, and the rest of the county too, for all I know, and may or may not be tied into bizarre customs of witchcraft, one of which forbids the summoning of demons, which, in turn, is impossible to begin with. Which parts are shadow, and what is casting them, Noish-pa?

&
nbsp; I paced, and stared at the mill across the river, and listened to water lap against the dock. As I stood there, the Furnace rose, and the shadows became shorter. It was becoming warm, and I thought about going back to the inn and getting a lighter cloak, but transferring even those few surprises I still carried with me seemed like too much work. I really wanted someone to attack me, so I could hit something and watch it bleed. The sight of the Merss farm, burned and smoking, fixed itself in my mind’s eye, superimposed over the river and the smoking mill.

  A sort of boat—long and ungainly—set out from the mill and began to work its way downriver, mostly drifting with the current. There were two or three figures on it, though what they were doing I couldn’t say. I watched it until it was out of sight, then turned my back on the river.

  A few women, some with babes, went into shops along the street; a few children played here and there. Everything looked innocent. Whatever was going on, it was well concealed.

  Damn this town. Damn this country.

  All right, then.

  I could allow myself a certain amount of moaning and complaining and wishing the world were something other than it is, but enough is enough. Besides, I had to tell myself to stop feeling sorry for myself before Loiosh got around to it.

  Sometimes if you can find a thread, you can take it and start following it to see where it leads. When I thought about it, I realized that the trouble wasn’t lack of threads, but rather too many. So: Pick one, grab hold, see where it goes, and hope someone tries to stop me because that will give me someone to take my frustrations out on.

  Dahni.

  He’d come out of nowhere, in the middle of the night, talking in all sorts of vague circumlocutions. He wanted me to do something but wouldn’t say what it was: therefore, he knew something, and I needed to know it.

  “Loiosh.”

  “Dahni’s house, Boss? Keep a watch on it?”

  “Yep.”

  “On my way.”

  I could have gone back to the inn and waited there, but I was getting tired of the bloody place; and besides, I had the feeling that the host and I were reaching the point where something would happen, and unless he turned out to be a key player in all of this (after all, anyone might be), that would just be a waste of perfectly good violence. So I went over to the west side of a warehouse a few steps from where I’d been watching the mill, squatted down in its shade, and waited.

  After about half an hour, Loiosh said, “Either he isn’t here, or he’s asleep. I haven’t heard a sound.”

  “All right. Stay with it.”

  That’s how I spent the morning and the afternoon. Well, how Loiosh spent it; I was able to run off and get some bread and sausage, whereas he was stuck there. I mention this because Loiosh did. Repeatedly. I gave Rocza some sausage and sent her to Loiosh, but this just barely diminished the remarks I was getting. When Rocza returned she seemed amused, which meant that either I was finally beginning to get some level of rapport with her, or I was imagining things. I’d call it fifty-fifty.

  But for the most part, I just sat there, under the shade, watching nothing happen in several directions. This time, there wasn’t a friendly tag showing up to offer me her services and sell me information. Information aside, I’d have welcomed the distraction.

  As it got toward evening the wind shifted, now coming directly at me from the mill. You can imagine how pleased I was about that. But then half an hour or so later it shifted again, now blowing back toward the mountains, which doesn’t make sense, but I’ve never claimed to understand weather.

  Loiosh wanted to know how long he was going to have to sit there. So did I, which answer pleased him about as much as you’d expect. We were getting on each other’s nerves, I guess; which is surprising only when you consider how rarely it had happened over the years. I was aware of it, and tried not to push things; for his part, he did his job.

  There was still plenty of light left in the day when he said, “Here he is, Boss. Just coming home.”

  “Walking?”

  “Nope. A small coach and two, Boss. Unmarked.”

  “Hmm. Means nothing.”

  “Boss? I think I recognize the guy driving it.”

  “Give me a look. Ah. Good one, chum.”

  “Who—?”

  “Can’t really see the red hair in this light, but he was one of the Count’s men-at-arms outside the manor.”

  “Okay, Boss. Now what?”

  “Now I get to say ‘ah-ha.’”

  “Good. Say it. Then you can explain what it means.”

  “I haven’t gotten that far yet. One ah-ha at a time.”

  “I’m just saying, it doesn’t prove he’s working for the Count. He might have been on an errand to—”

  “I know. But it’s something to start with.”

  “Sure, Boss. Do I watch for Dahni to leave again, or are you visiting him at home?”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “Boss, you might want to wait until full dark; it’s awfully exposed here. Lots of shacks in the same place, all looking at each other, and people coming and going.”

  “You know that leaves you stuck there watching until I can make it?”

  He sighed into my mind, which I took as a yes, so I settled back to wait some more. Presently, as the darkness came, the docks across the river began to come to life as the boatmen prepared to bring the mill workers back to this side of the river. I wondered why none of them seemed to have built houses on that side, and saved themselves the trip twice a day. Maybe because of the stench, or because the Count forbade it. The latter was more likely.

  They poured out of the place like small insects with a predator in the nest—emerging from all the holes, desperate to reach the boats and get away from the place. From what I could see, there was pushing and shoving and maybe a few fights as some were left behind until the return trip. And now there were a few more people—women showing off their ankles—out on the street, walking past me and some of them giving me quick speculative glances. The boats began to arrive, and there were the sounds of talking and laughing and cursing and the tramping of feet. Twenty minutes later, the second boatloads arrived, and this was repeated on a slightly smaller scale, finally falling to silence as the darkness thickened.

  Sometime, watch it get dark in a lightless city—preferably somewhere like the East where the Furnace blazes in such plain sight that you can’t bear to look at it. It’s different than in a place with Enclouding, and also different from the country. The shadows of the buildings and the occasional lonely tree gradually get longer and longer until they blend in with other buildings, with other shadows, and with the night itself, and you realize that dark has quite fallen, and you are in a new place, in a town in the night.

  Loiosh guided me there, using Rocza’s eyes and giving me directions. Occasionally a bit of light spilled from a house, so I could see my way for a few steps, or sometimes someone would come along swinging a lamp, used by everyone in town with any sense—that is to say, everyone but me. But for the most part Loiosh guided me. The greater part of my effort went into staying quiet; you’d be surprised how much harder it is to stay quiet when you can’t see anything. Or maybe you wouldn’t.

  When I reached the house, Loiosh gave his wings a quick flap so I could identify where he was. He usually flies as quietly as an owl, but can make noise if he wants. I asked him about that once and he said owls are stupid, which hadn’t been what I was asking about at all, so I dropped the subject.

  He landed on my shoulder. There was a tiny bit of light leaking from a shuttered window.

  “What’s the play, Boss?”

  “I bash in the door, you and Rocza get in his face, and we improvise from there. You’re pretty sure he’s the only one in the place?”

  “No sounds from in there for hours, Boss.”

  “All right. Ready?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t hear the door lock, by the way.”

  “You mean I don’t get to break i
t down? Damn.”

  He was right, the latch lifted easily, and I flung it open. The damned light assaulted my eyes, and I was mostly blind. Loiosh and Rocza flew in and I followed, hoping for the best.

  There was a flurry of movement, some cursing, and I squinted hard and got my hands on him; then I had a dagger out and was holding it at the back of his neck. He lashed out and caught me one in the face, then kicked, but I saw that well enough to dodge it. I grabbed him harder and remembered I was dealing with a human, so I shifted the knife to his throat and he obligingly stopped moving. The loudest sound in the room was his breathing. I had the feeling he wasn’t happy.

  “Well met, friend Dahni. How are you on this fine evening, with the stars shining and all crickets chirping merrily and night-finches cooing so sweetly?”

  He just kept breathing.

  My eyes were starting to adjust. I pushed him backward and onto a stuffed chair, keeping pressure on the knife at his throat. He brought his chin up. I could now see that he was glaring, which failed to startle me.

  “I will ask questions,” I said. “And you will answer them. If you don’t answer them, I’ll decide you have no value to me. If you do answer them, I’ll let you live. If I later find out you’ve lied to me, I will return. Are we clear on the basics?”

  “It was the jhereg,” he said. “They followed me.”

  “My familiar has skills which aren’t exactly traditional,” I said.

  “It isn’t too late,” he told me. “Walk out the door, and I’ll just forget this happened.”

  “Kind of you,” I said. “Now, first of all, who do you work for?”

  “You have no idea what you’re—”

  I slapped him, hard. “Don’t even start.”

  He just sat there, glaring at me.

  “No,” I said. “That won’t do. I need an answer. If you don’t answer me, I will kill you. Has your employer earned that kind of loyalty?”

  Somewhere, behind his eyes, he was thinking. I gave him some time.

  “I work for Count Saekeresh,” he said at last.

  I released the pressure on his throat just a little—call it a reward of sorts. “What do you for him?”