by Steven Brust
You can learn a lot from the questions someone asks; it seems like I had made that observation not long before. In this case, it was easy to put together, once my mind was clear. Not that it helped, especially. At the time, I only realized that I couldn't answer them because they made no sense and that I should try to explain that. I wanted to explain it. It was terribly frustrating that I couldn't seem to find the right words.
I know I threw up sometime in there, and I remember being pleased that my stomach felt better, although something about it seemed odd. And that damned humming in my ears wouldn't go away, which was the worst of it. I mean, it wasn't, but it was.
Something grabbed my head, not especially gently, and there was water poured into my mouth. I drank it, and noticed I was shivering. I wasn't sick, I was just cold. Well, no problem. I'd cover myself up just as soon as I could find a blanket. Cawti'd probably stolen the damned blanket again. Well, no, because then she'd be warming me up, and if she were warming me up, the humming in my ears would stop, wouldn't it? So where was she, anyway? Why wasn't she here? She should be here to warm me up and stop the buzzing in my ears. I'd stop the buzzing in her ears if she needed me to.
A child's voice whispered, "I'm sorry," and I have no idea what makes me think it was a child's voice—how can you tell from a whisper? But I thought so at the time, and I wondered what she'd done. But the voice seemed to warm me, somehow, and I stopped shivering.
"Boss?"
"What the—"
"Boss, don't let them know you're yourself!"
"Let—"
"Play dead!"
Loiosh doesn't sound peremptory very often, so when he does, I listen, and right then, when I was just becoming aware that I was just becoming aware, and had no idea how or what or where or like that, it seemed a good idea to listen to him, so I remained still.
"What-?"
"Boss, Rocza is hurt."
"How bad?"
"I don't know. She won't tell me. She's afraid if I think she's hurt bad I'll find a new mate."
"Is that what jhereg do?"
"In the wild."
"Did you explain that you're civilized?"
"She doesn't believe me."
"She doesn't know you very well, does she?"
"It's sort of instinct."
"All right. Do what you can for her. Any idea what happened?"
"That woman. She used a dart of some kind. Orbahn tried to get me, but I was expecting it."
"Expecting it."
"When they grabbed you, Boss. As soon as they grabbed you—"
"Who grabbed me?"
Fortunately, I had some time right then. Loiosh explained as best he could what had been going on, and gradually my memory kicked in, bringing me up to the point I've already brought you. After that, I hope you're confused about what happened, because if not I haven't explained it well.
By that time, I knew that I was naked, on my back, blindfolded, and couldn't move my arms or my legs. It seemed very likely that, whoever had me, they were planning to do unpleasant things to me. That had happened once before, and I hadn't done well with it, during or after. It was something, even now, my memory shied away from. Had I learned anything last time that might be useful this time? Not really, no. I knew that the anticipation was part of it—they wanted me to be afraid, to work on myself; and my memory of what had happened before was making it easier on them. I knew that.
It was astonishing how little it helped that I knew that.
Loiosh and I continued talking; he filled me in on the details of the attack, and said hopefully that he thought Rocza wasn't hurt too badly, and we talked about how thoroughly we had been set up, and I made some amusing—in intent, anyway—remarks about how they could have done it better. In short, he kept me occupied while I waited for something to happen.
Loiosh, still being hopeful, suggested that, if they hadn't done anything terrible to me by now, maybe they weren't going to.
By now?
"Loiosh, how long has it been?"
"Three days, Boss."
"Three—Loiosh, what have I been doing for three days?"
"I don't know, Boss! I couldn't tell!"
If he were human, it would have sounded like he was on the verge of tears.
"All right, chum. Take it easy. We'll get out of this. The drugs have worn off. I can think now." Loiosh kept whatever wisecrack that might have generated to himself.
I was beginning to be able to see, and more important, my mind was clear enough to realize that I'd been drugged. My inquisitor wore a gray hood over his face; I couldn't help but wonder if he was trying to conceal his features or if he was just doing it for effect. Other than that, I had the impression that the room I was in was something like a larder, or small storage room of some kind. In any case it was small, not too much bigger than it had to be to hold the table I was strapped to. I was strapped in pretty well, by the way, and the table was solid.
The man peered out at me from under his hood and said "As you no doubt are aware by now, your familiars are no more."
"Hear that, Loiosh? You are no more."
"True, Boss. I'm no less, either."
"Funny guy."
"I have been asked to get information from you. You will tell me what I want to know. How much screaming you do before you give the information is up to you."
I cleared my throat, wondering if I could talk. "You could just ask. I've been known to be cooperative."
"Oh, I'll try that first. But if I don't like the answers I get, I will hurt you. I will cause you pain. If that doesn't work, then let me remind you that you have ten fingers, ten toes, two eyes, two ears, and various other bits and pieces that can be treated individually. Also remember that I don't much care what condition you're in when I'm done."
"If you're trying to scare me," I said, "its working."
"I can do a great deal more than scare you."
Where do they get this stuff? "Um, if I thought all you could do was scare me, you couldn't scare me, if you see what I mean."
"We'll see how funny you are in a little while."
I was mildly curious about that myself.
Then and then and now.
Then, it was all about the moment; each instant a transition from terror to its realization, almost as a relief; and then back. But each isolated, unique, individual.
Then it was sharp as a knife, clear as the sky in the East, distinct as the face of a loved one. Each event was pure and moments flowed together like a river, where no droplet has meaning save as part of those around it, and the entirety moving according to its own logic, regardless of what pieces of driftwood may be caught in a momentary eddy.
Now it is what memory has left. A single strip of cloth implies the garment from which it was torn, but yet I cannot, from a few dirty pieces, give you the cut and the fit and the blend of colors. The implication must remain implication, because memory preserves, and it protects, and in doing so picks for its own reasons, so if now I give you tattered rags, it is because they are what remain to me. You may regret this; I do not.
"Who are you working for?"
Blinding, impossible brilliance washing over me.
"What was your mission?"
High in an upper corner of the room was a spider, too small for me to see clearly, but her web grew as I watched, lines forming in patterns that reminded me of something I'd seen once, something associated with vast quantities of water. I tried to remember what it was. Spiders are by nature very patient. The flow of moments means nothing to them.
"Who do you report to?"
The room fading in and out, in and out, trying to focus on the spiderweb annoyed that it kept vanishing into a pale haze.
"How is Rocza?"
"Snappy and bad ‘tempered, Boss."
"Is that a good sign?"
"I wish I knew."
"Are you working for the Empire?"
"No," I said. I remember that. I said, "No."
"Very well. I will
accept that provisionally, though I don't really believe you. But I'll give you a chance. Who are you working for?"
"I'm not working for anyone," I said. "I came here looking for my family."
"No, no," he said. "That won't do at all."
"Sorry," I said; and honestly, I was.
And fractured pieces of the spiderweb fluttered about inside my head, and I know it is impossible to grind your teeth when your mouth is wide open; why is it that I remember doing so?
Islands of calm in a sea of pain, a sky of fear covering all.
I know there were times when I was myself. I don't know who I was the rest of the time, and I'm glad of that.
"We know what you are doing here; we just aren't certain who you're doing it for."
"Well, all right. I'll be happy to say whatever you'd like, you know. If you give me a name—"
"Don't play with us, Lord Merss, or whoever you are."
I didn't answer that.
"Would you like some water, Lord Merss?"
"I don't know. Drugged or undrugged?"
"Oh, undrugged. I wish your mental faculties to be at their sharpest."
"Then I'd be delighted."
He held my head carefully as I drank; his eyes were brown, and actually seemed rather friendly, even kind. Shows how reliable eyes are, I guess. He put ice on the inside of my forearms; I'm not sure what that was supposed to do. It felt nice, though.
He gave me a few minutes, I guess to think things over.
"All right," he said. "Now, let us consider this. You are working either for the Empire, or for a private entrepreneur. In the latter case, it is a question of money. In the former, it could be loyalty. If it is money, how much pain is the money worth, not to mention being unable to spend it? In the latter, would the Empress truly wish you to endure great pain for what must be a minor project for her?"
He had a point. Well, if I said it was an individual, he'd want a name, and I didn't have a good name to give him. "All right," I said. "It's the Empire."
He smiled. "Good," he said. "Who do you report to?"
I don't remember what I said, then, or the next questions, but eventually he must have tripped me up, because I remember him saying, "Why would you lie about something like that? I admit it, you are puzzling me."
"I'll take my satisfaction in that, I guess."
And—days? Hours? Years?
What's time to a kethna? Sorry, private joke. In any case, call it a blank space of some duration.
I leaned against the back wall of a little room, massaging my wrists and studying the chain on my ankles, and where it was connected to the floor. It was a wooden floor; there ought to be a way to pry that connection out, if they'd leave me alone for a while. I felt weak—most likely lack of food—but I thought I could still do it.
Thinking about that, how to do it, focusing on—
The spiderweb was bigger now, more elaborate. "Be reasonable," he said. "It isn't that I want to hurt you; I don't. It's just that there are things we need to know. You are forcing me to do things I find distasteful."
"I hope that doesn't make me a bad person," I said. My voice, in my own ears, lacked the jaunty quality I'd been trying for.
My sweat stank.
"Boss?"
"How is Rocza?"
"I think she's going to be fine."
"Good!"
"I don't know what to do, Boss."
"Take care of Rocza, and stay out of sight."
He was running a cool cloth over my forehead; I have to admit it felt good. "You're stubborn," he said. "That's an impressive quality."
"If you're leading up to courting me," I said, "I sort of have my eye on someone already. But thanks."
What did he want me to tell him, anyway? His questions weren't making sense. I'd even tried to explain that once or twice, but he'd just gotten this idea firmly in his head, and it wasn't budging. That's a problem a lot of people have, I've noticed they get a notion locked in, and then refuse to examine it in the light of new evidence.
"Boss!"
"Loiosh, can't you see I'm trying to talk to, this nice man?"
"What nice man?"
"The one asking the questions."
"You're all alone, Boss."
"Oh, so I am. I must have dozed off. He's a boring fellow, really, though well-intentioned"
"I hope that's sarcasm."
"I prefer to think of it as gentle irony, but close enough."
"If a way opens up, Boss, will you be able to walk out of there?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Mmmm?"
"See if you can walk."
"All right, if it makes you happy."
I tried to stand up.
"Okay, I guess you were right to check. I need to complain about the meals in this place; evidently I'm not getting enough of something in my diet."
"Boss, do you know where they put your things?"
He sounded like he was fighting to stay calm. I wished I could think of a way to reassure him I was all right.
"No, afraid not" I said. "I'm not that concerned about it, frankly. Most of it is replaceable, and I don't know how much good Spellbreaker would do under these circumstances."
"I'm thinking of the amulet, Boss. The jhereg can trace you."
"Oh, the amulet I have. It's sort of attached to me. They must have figured out that if it weren't on me I could do sorcery, and they'd have trouble keeping me here."
"Can you remove it?"
"Uh, no."
"We'll have to come up with something, Boss. I don't know how much longer you can survive there."
"How long has it been?"
"You've been in there for a week now."
"Oh, have I?" That seemed odd, but not terribly important. "How is Rocza?"
"Boss, she's fine! Just..."
"What?"
"Nothing, Boss."
"Lord Taltos," he said slowly, "I'm having trouble understanding why you took the name Merss when you came here. Even if I were to believe your story of why you are under an assumed name why that name? No, no. I'm sorry, that is preposterous. What I would like you to say is the truth. Yes, I am convinced the Count was wrong in his initial idea about you. But you really shouldn't be so stubborn—I told you what I want."
"He found out my name, Loiosh."
"You told him, Boss.”
"I told him? Why would I do that?"
"We need to get you out of there, Boss."
"Yeah, well, mark me down in favor. Do you even know where I am?"
"No. Do you?"
"Basement of the paper mill."
"How long have you known that?"
"Just put it together now. I don't know. The smell. And the sounds. Didn't even know I was aware of the sounds. Isn't it odd that—"
"Okay, Boss. But how do I get you out? There's no one I can talk to.”
"It's just funny that I knew that. It's funny how the mind works—"
"How do I get you out, Boss?"
"Find Dahni, of course."
"Boss?"
"Find him."
"But how do I talk to him?"
"You won't have to."
"How does that work?"
"He's smart, and he knows you. He'll see you, ask about me, you won't answer, he’ll figure it out. It might take him a while. I'm sorry I won't be there to watch."
"You think he'll help?"
"He'll help.”
"Why?"
"He'll help.”
I didn't feel like telling Loiosh how I knew; he'd raise all sorts of objections, and I couldn't deal with those right now.
"My dear Lord Taltos, all you need to do is tell me a few, simple things, and all of this will stop: What is the name of the traitor, what does the King plan, and when will he be making his move?"
King? Now there were kings involved in this? Where was I, anyway? The East? Oh, yeah, I was. So, okay, I guess it made sense that there were kings involved. I just shook my head. There wasn't anything I could
say by this time.
"I'm afraid," he told me, "that I'm going to have to get serious."
"Well, all right, though I've been enjoying the frivolous part."
"No doubt."
"One thing, before you get too serious."
"Yes?"
"Mind telling me your name, so I can remember you in my prayers?"
He just shook his head. I suddenly remembered the child's whisper I'd heard, and it occurred to me that the child hadn't been apologizing, she'd been expressing sympathy. I felt very pleased that I now understood that.
"Boss? We're coming. Can you hang on just a little longer!"
"No problem, Loiosh. I'm trying to get him to tell me his name. I'll see if I can get it out of him before you show up.”
The spiderweb was finished; that made me sad, though I imagine the spider took some satisfaction from it.
My questioner continued, and it got to be something of a running joke between us; he'd ask me questions I couldn't answer, and I'd ask him his name.
He never did tell me, though; he continued not wanting to tell me right up to the moment when the point of a knife suddenly emerged through the front of his throat.
12
Boraan: And, I suppose, you will want the explanation, my lord?
Lefitt: Oh, let's skip that part.
Boraan: My dear, you know we'd be killed.
Lefitt: Of course. But it might be worth it, just for novelty.
—Miersen, Six Parts Water Day Two, Act VI, Scene 5
He gagged and choked and clawed the floor and took a long time dying. I watched him carefully. I'm not sure why; I didn't feel any special malice toward him. But I just had the feeling that someday I would want to have been watching while he died. People were talking to me as it was going on, but I ignored them; I guess it was really important to watch. I don't know. I noted the details with a sort of professional detached interest— the terror in his eyes, the helplessness on his face. He wrapped his hands around his throat as if he could stop the bleeding, looking like he was choking himself—an effect increased by the bluish color that crept over him. I kept watching. I didn't miss an instant.