by Steven Brust
—Miersen, Six Parts Water Day Two, Act I, Scene 5
About three years later, as I was watching his back disappear up the stairs, Loiosh said, "Okay, Boss. Now what?"
Nothing builds confidence in subordinates like a quick decision in the face of unexpected circumstances.
"Um," I told him.
That was as far as I'd gotten when the young man came back down the stairs and gestured for me go up. He sat down and returned to whatever he had been doing without giving me another word. I didn't say anything. When you're licked, you're licked.
I did, however, make a point of flicking my cloak aside so I could get to my rapier in a hurry if I needed to, and checked the surprises I had left about my person to make sure they were ready and accessible.
The upper floor was all one room with a high arched ceiling and decorated, if you will, with a strange assortment of items hanging from the walls: a bunch of plants, a pair of boots, a hat, a shirt, a ladle, a hammer, a bottle of wine, and more. It took me a moment to figure out that these represented some or all of the members of the Guild. It was quaint. Anything that stays trite long enough becomes quaint.
Chayoor was a burly, barrel-chested man with thin black curly hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and dark eyes. He rose as I approached, gave me a perfunctory bow, and seated himself while gesturing me toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. He had a desk, not a table. The benefits of power: You get your own desk. I'm not mocking it; I remember how I felt when I got my own desk
I sat down.
"Lord Taltos," he said. "I was informed you would be here."
"I should prefer to be known as Merss, if you don't mind."
"Very well," he said.
"Would you mind telling me who it was who informed you?"
"I'm sorry, that I cannot do."
Okay. Well. This conversation just wasn't going at all the way I'd planned it. The whole intimidating him thing had gotten off to a bad start.
"That's unfortunate," I said. "I have enemies, you know. Also friends. If I don't know whether it was a friend or an enemy that alerted you, it puts me in an uncomfortable position."
"It was a friend," he said.
Right. Just so you know, I didn't have any "friends" who knew where I was going. "And if it had been an enemy, you'd have told me?"
"I see your point," he said. "Nevertheless—"
"Yeah. Well, if it was a friend, I assume he asked you to cooperate with me?"
He frowned. "Not as such."
"Uh huh."
He looked uncomfortable, which was at least a little encouraging. "What exactly do you need?"
"I came here looking for my family," I said. "My mother's kin."
"Yes," he said. "I'm sorry about what happened."
I need to explain that Fenarian makes a distinction between, "I apologize for an injury," and, "I express my sympathy." He used the latter formulation. I grunted or something.
"I'm going to find out who did it," I said.
His eyebrow went up. "And then?"
I cocked my head at him. "Why, then I will turn the guilty party over to the duly constituted authority, of course."
It was his turn to grunt. "In Burz," he said, "the duly constituted authority is me."
"Is that the law?" I asked. "Or just how it works?"
"What's the difference?"
"You're a blunt son-of-a-bitch, I'll give you that."
He laughed, throwing his head back and letting his belly shake. I hadn't thought it was that funny.
"Yes, Lord, ah, Merss, I am a blunt son-of-a-bitch. And I'll tell you bluntly that I like how things are here in my town, and if you do anything to interfere with it, we will no longer be friends."
"Yeah," I said. "I guessed that part."
"So," he said. "Now what will you do?"
"Let me assume you had nothing against the Merss family, because if you're responsible, you wouldn't tell me. So, who did?"
"I couldn't tell you," he said.
I rubbed my chin. "You know," I said, "if you interfere with me finding out what I want to find out, you might no longer be my friend."
"Is that a threat?"
"I'm not sure. I guess it'll sort of do for one. As a threat, how does it rate?"
"Hollow," he said.
I fixed him with patented Jhereg stare number six, lowered my voice, and said, "Then you can safely ignore it, I guess."
I had the satisfaction of seeing that go home; he looked uncomfortable.
I stood up abruptly, before he could announce the end of the interview. "I'd appreciate it," I said, "if my name wouldn't go any further."
"It won't," he told me. "Only Shandy and I know it, and he won't say anything."
I nodded, turned, and made my way across the long, long room to the stairway, then down and out. Shandy didn't look up as I walked past him.
It was still raining when I got outside, but not too hard. I made it back to the Hat somewhere between wet and soaked.
"Boss, not to put too fine a point on it, but we need to get out of this place. Now. I mean, without stopping. Pick a direction and start walking."
"Yeah, I know.”
"Boss, they know who you are."
"I know.”
"That bastard could get rich just by dropping your name in the right ear."
"I know. But, Loiosh, why hasn't he done so already? Why am I still breathing?"
"Boss, can we please talk about this after we're out of town? I'm too old to learn to hunt for myself."
"You don't hunt, you scavenge."
"Boss—"
"Loiosh, have you ever known me to walk into something this strange and just walk away from it without finding out what's going on?"
"This would be a really, really good time to start."
"I'll take it under advisement"
I got inarticulate thoughts that were probably the jhereg equivalent of cursing.
I stamped some of the rain off my clothes and shook my head like a dog.
"Thanks for the shower, Boss."
"Like you were dry before?"
I found a drink and a chair and sat down.
"Loiosh, how in blazes did they learn my name?"
"Huh? You don't know?"
"You do?"
"Of course!"
"All right, how?"
"When you took the amulet off and did the spell, Boss. Remember, I felt something?"
This time it was my turn to curse. "They got it right out of my head."
"There's still the question of who did it."
"Who could it be? It wasn't the Jhereg. If they knew I was here, they'd send someone in to kill me. End of discussion."
'Uh, okay.”
"There's Chayoor himself.”
"Boss, he didn't tell himself who you are; someone has to have told him.”
"Sorry, chum. I'm not just going over who might have told Chayoor, I'm trying to work out all the players in this mess."
"Heh. Good luck with that."
"There's Orbahn, who's either too helpful, or not helpful enough."
"Right.”
"There are these witches. There's most likely a Coven. They could have acted on their own behalf, as the Coven. Even if not, one of their members must have done the Working, so either way they could know.
"Then there's the coachman, who's the only guy I've found who has been really helpful, which makes me suspicious."
"Uh... all right.”
"And then there's Count Saekeresh, however he fits in. Have I left anyone out?"
"Sure. Everyone else in town, and everyone, everyone knows.”
"I take your point, Loiosh. But let's keep it within reason."
"We're way beyond that, Boss."
"Loiosh.”
"All right. The host?"
"Right. The host. Good position to hear things, and knows I've been asking questions."
"Boss, can't we please leave?"
"No."
I accepted the p
sychic form of a resigned sigh and continued my ruminations.
"What are you thinking about, Boss? You know and I know you're going to march up to the Count and try to intimidate him. Probably work as well as—"
"Shut up.”
I hate it when he's right.
Well, if I was going to do it, may as well do it properly. I went over to Inchay. "Can you find someone to run a message to Count Saekeresh for me?"
He looked at me sharply, decided that was a mistake, and washed a cup that didn't need washing while he thought it over. At last he said, "Very well. What is the message?"
"If you have paper and ink."
He nodded, dried his hands, and vanished into a small room behind the bar, then emerged with the necessary equipment. I wrote and handed it to him, unsealed.
"How urgent is it?"
"Today would be good."
"I'll see that it gets there today."
I gave him more of that jingly stuff that keeps tradesmen wanting to be helpful, then settled back to see if Orbahn would show up, and if Loiosh would calm down.
No, and no.
Later I had more lamb stew. Sometimes I get into ruts where I'll eat the same thing for days. I used to do that, long ago, I guess in part out of laziness. Cawti had largely broken me of the habit just because I liked trying new ideas out on her, but now I was falling back into the pattern. But I guess part of it was that the lamb stew was good. I liked the bread, too; having the right kind of bread to mop up stew is its own art.
No, and no.
The place started to fill up, and I moved to a back table. I was getting more covert looks than I had before; I wasn't sure exactly what sort of word was spreading about me, but something was. I reflected that that was part of the problem—I didn't know. I'd gotten spoiled, I suppose, by having Kragar near at hand, and access to Morrolan's spy network (he never used that term, I think he found it distasteful, but that's what it was), and Kiera and her nearly endless knowledge of the arcana of the Underworld. If I wanted to know what was going on, all I had to do was decide who to ask first; eventually I'd find out. Here, I was in the dark, and I didn't care for it. Cawti would have told me to figure out exactly what I wanted to accomplish, and then helped me break it down into steps, and—
I found myself wanting a very strong drink and didn't take it because getting drunk right then would have been a stupid idea, and because I hate being trite. It can lead to being quaint. Instead, I made circles on the table with my finger in the moisture from my glass. I found I'd been doing that a lot lately, and wondered about it. But not very much.
Some hours later, one of the barmaids tapped my shoulder and indicated the host, who was trying to get my attention. I made my way over to him, and he handed me a note. I nodded and returned to my table to read it. I had to shift my chair to a place where my shadow wasn't blocking the light from the nearest lamp; then I broke the seal and unfolded the thick parchment. G6od paper, I noticed; they probably made it locally.
"My Lord Merss," it read, "His Lord wishes above all to present His Condolences upon your recent loss, and to assure you that all steps are being taken to bring the perpetrators to justice. Unfortunately, His Lordship's health does not permit visitors at this time, but he hopes you will know that you are in his thoughts in the kindest way. I remain, my Lord, Your Servant, Tahchay Loiosh, Scribe."
"Hey, he has the same name as me," said Loiosh.
"He probably doesn't fly as well," I said.
I folded the note carefully in half, and put it into an inside pocket of my cloak while I thought about it. It wasn't as if I were surprised; I hadn't expected him to jump at the chance to see me. I'd had a plan for what to do in this case, back a long time ago— last night—when I'd worked it all out. Only since then everything had come loose, and was now flapping in the breeze.
"Well, Boss? Going to visit him anyway?"
"You know damned well I am."
"Yeah. Boss, are you trying to get killed?"
"Is that a rhetorical question?"
"Okay" I gave it some thought. "No, I don't think so."
"All right. Good."
People kept coming into the place, all of them wet and dripping. I didn't feel like going out, and they didn't feel like giving me any more than the occasional hostile glance. I'd somehow built Fenario up in my head into this perfect land, full of happy, smiling people who would greet me like a long-lost brother. It was downright disheartening. I was tempted to just start breaking random arms and legs.
And still no sign of Orbahn. I was beginning to think he was avoiding me. Was that suspicious? Well, sure. What, by Barlan's Sacred Slime Trail, wasn't suspicious at this point? Anything anyone did or didn't do, said or didn't say, might mean he was looking to put a knife in me.
Of course, to some degree, I'd lived with that most of my life. The difference was, I used to know the game and the rules. Yeah, fine, but, okay, Vlad, who broke the rules?
Cawti. She's the one who got herself involved in things we had no business getting involved in.
Well, yeah, but I was the one who had to piss off the whole Jhereg. What was I thinking, anyway? Heroic rescue my ass. Maybe I was just trying to come up with a good excuse to jump off the ship because I didn't want the humiliation of running it into the rocks.
Okay, Vlad. Settle down. This is getting you nowhere. Take a deep breath, another slug of wine, and try to bloody concentrate. You have a problem. It isn't the first problem you've ever had. Unless you get stupid, it won't be the last. So look at it, analyze it, treat it like the others.
Crap.
When you reach the point of needing to tell yourself how to think, you've already gone beyond the point where you're willing to listen. Or maybe that's just me.
I tried to remember why I'd decided not to get drunk, and I couldn't, so I called over the barmaid and asked for decent brandy. She returned with a bottle of Veeragkasher, which qualifies, I think. After the third glass I didn't care, in any case.
Loiosh tells me I got myself to bed all right. He also tells me I didn't even make it halfway through the bottle. How humiliating.
Sometimes we're treated better than we deserve. I not only woke up feeling fine the next morning, I also woke up. I went down the hall to the cistern, got some hot water, and spent some time getting clean and pretty. Then I walked over to my window and, standing to the side, looked out at the street. It was gray and wet outside, but no longer raining. I continued watching for a couple of minutes, and then the Furnace appeared, making the wet streets glisten. I could have decided it was an omen, the Furnace coming out like that to brighten things, only it was doing the same thing for my enemies.
Well, no doubt it promised good fortune to someone, about something. Omens always prove true if you just allow them enough room to work.
I spent a few more minutes watching the bizarre spectacle of steam rising from the streets, then went downstairs to the jug room and got some coffee. With enough honey and heavy cream, it was drinkable, but I made a vow that someday I would return here, buy this man a klava press, and teach him how to use it. Or else maybe kill him.
All right, I knew what I was going to do, and I'd already worked out how to do it—I kept that much of my original plan intact. I returned to my room and dressed as well as I could with what I had with me; I've looked better, leave it at that. I took out the Imperial Seal Her Majesty had given me for being an idiot in a good cause—sorry, long story— and folded it up in a square of red silk, which I then sealed with wax and a ring that went with yet another seal, that one in the possession of my grandfather. I put the sealed package, about the size of my palm, in my cloak and went back downstairs to continue waking up.
Eventually the coffee did its work, and my brain started performing in a semblance of its usual manner. I asked the host where the Count's manor was, and was given a scowl, a suspicious look, and directions that were a good ten miles from town. Which meant I could either spend all day walking there and the
n back, or...
I sighed and asked if there was anyone who rented horses. Yes, in fact, he did; there were stables in the back, and a stable-boy who would help me pick one out if I showed him a chit. How much? Okay.
"Quit laughing, Loiosh."
"Boss, sometimes you just ask the impossible.”
The muscle aches had completely vanished, so I might as well get new ones. I went back to the table and took my time finishing my coffee, then walked out the back door to the stables, I suppose much the way a man might walk to the Executioner's Star.
This "stable-boy" was somewhat older than I was, balding, tall, and had piercing black eyes as well as enough girth to make me feel sorry for the horses. When he began to take the equipment down I got a look at his right biceps. Maybe part of his job was picking up the horses, I don't know.
He didn't say a lot as he worked, just grunted when I explained I wanted a horse that would let me stay on top of him, and wouldn't do anything to embarrass me. He picked out a rather fat-looking horse that is I think the color horse people call "sorrel" though it looked brown to me. If it's brown, why can't they call it brown?
He led it up to me, helped guide my foot into the stirrup, and held it while I mounted; then he went around and got my other foot placed.
"Her name is Marsi," he said.
"All right."
Marsi seemed indifferent to the proceedings, which pleased me. I felt very, very tall. Too tall. Anything that high up is liable to come down again.
I got going in the right direction, and tried not to let my teeth knock against each other. Marsi, may all the blessings be upon her, walked significantly faster than I did, and felt this meant she had no need to trot, canter, gallop, or turn handsprings. I made a vow to give a nice tip to the stable-boy for not being one of the practical-joking sort one hears about.
The morning grew warm; I removed my cloak and draped it over Marsi's back— which is much tougher than it sounds on horseback. Thanks to his kindness and Marsi's good nature, as well as the directions from the host, I felt as good as could be expected by the time I saw the double row of trees that had been described as the entrance to the manor.
It was a long ride to the manor itself, during which I rode by gardeners who glanced at me as if uncertain if they were supposed to make an obeisance. It gradually occurred to me that a lot of the doubt came from the horse. I was, perhaps, the only human within a hundred-mile circle who didn't consider himself an expert on horseflesh, and I was probably doing the equivalent of Morrolan riding up to the Ascension Day Ball in a hay wagon.