by Steven Brust
“That’s just what I was thinking, Loiosh.”
“Of course,”he added, “the cause enters into it as well.”
“The cause?”
“The reason you’re fighting.”
“Oh. It isn’t just to fight?”
“Well, sometimes it is.”
“You mean, most of the time it is?”
“Yeah, most of the time.”
“Uh huh.”
“But not the important times.”
“Mmm. Care to explain that?”
“It isn’t difficult. When you do something big, you want it to matter.” He looked at me. “Well, don’t you?”
“I don’t usually get into things by my own plan. I get dumped into them, and then I’m too busy trying to stay alive to think about the importance of the cause.”
He nodded as if he understood.
I had another bite of fish, and another sip of wine.
I remembered a friend I’d had named Ricard—one of the few people I knew who weren’t involved with the Organization. He was an Easterner, a stocky fellow with thin hair, and we’d eaten dinner together, gotten drunk on his boat on the bay, and argued about matters great and small. He worked ten hours a day, four days a week, doing what I pretended to do—keeping the books for a slaughterhouse—and two or three evenings a week would play obscure music on the cimbalon at an obscure house in South Adrilankha. Every couple of months he would have saved up enough silver to take me out for dinner at Valabar’s, and I’d take him a month later;we might or might not have dates with us. He enjoyed good food more than anyone else I’ve ever met, which made him a very pleasant companion. Right about this point in the meal, he’d look up at me with a big grin and say, “This is why we work so hard.”
Sandor—that’s me, if you’ve forgotten—made his way generally southward, to the area where the streets start running downhill toward the eastern docks of Adrilankha. The streets were, indeed, more crowded now as evening fell. As people passed me by, I was struck again by a little thing I’d noticed before, when comparing people in this part of Adrilankha to those in “the City”: Scars. I don’t mean anything big or grotesque, but, like, one guy I passed had this little scar on the corner of his mouth; another had a slight white mark above an eyebrow. And, yes, here and there were missing limbs, or obvious, dramatic scars that spoke of someone who had a story to tell his grandchildren; but even the little ones you’d never see among Dragaerans, among those who could just pop over to a physicker and make the injury look like it had never happened.
Dragaerans: the scarless people.
“What’s funny, Boss?”
“Nothing, Loiosh. I was just imagining walking up to Morrolan and saying, ‘Greetings, oh scarless one.’ ”
“And that was funny?”
“Imagining the look on his face was funny.”
The streets in this part of the city were very narrow indeed, and twisted even more than in most of South Adrilankha; I was once told that this was done by design, and had something to do with water runoff. While I won’t claim to understand it, I have vague memories of being here once or twice as a child during heavy rainstorms, and that I enjoyed playing in the water that rushed down toward the sea.
There was nothing here to indicate the names of any of the streets, but I recognized the one I wanted, took it, and started climbing again. Except when the street widened now and then to make room for a market, everything was the same: cheap, wooden houses, each one with a single door, a stairway around the side, two windows on each floor, and rooms for four families. One after another, just like that, as if some peasant had planted them in rows, watered them, and they’d grown up and were just waiting to be harvested.
I found the one I wanted and walked up the stairway on the side.
“Remember, Boss. Pound, don’t clap.”
“I remember.”
I pounded on the door with my fist.
After a moment, the door opened, and Ricard was standing there, wearing a raggedy white shirt and a pair of shorts. “Yes?”
“Hey there, Ricard.”
He tilted his head at me, then his eyes widened and I got a big grin.
“Vlad! Come in! Mornin’!”
For Ric it was always morning, no matter what time of day it was. I’d never asked him why because I was afraid of the answer.
“Brandy?” he said.
“Always.”
It is very difficult to say no to Ricard.
His place, two rooms hung with pastoral watercolors, with a sort of kitchen attached to the main room, was comfortable enough, and I don’t know what sort of brandy he brought me, but it was much silkier than what I usually drink, maybe not as complex, but there was no question it had been made from peaches, and it was just fine. We drank some and smiled.
“You’re in disguise,” he said, as if it were a joke.
“Yes, I am,” I said, as if it weren’t. “I half thought you’d be playing somewhere tonight.”
“Tomorrow.”
I nodded. “How have things been?”
“With me? Glorious. Ever heard of Bastrai?”
“The violinist? Sure, even I’ve heard of him.”
“I went over to hear him at the Twisted Sheet, and when he was done, I ended up playing all night with his backup musicians.”
“That must have been fun.”
“It was wonderful.” He grinned.
“I need to introduce you to a fellow I know named Aibynn. He’s from the Island.”
“He play?”
“He’s a drummer.”
Ric nodded, but didn’t seem terribly excited; I guess he knew a lot of drummers.
We drank some brandy. Ricard sat back and looked half serious; which is about as serious as Ricard gets, barring catastrophe. “What’s going on, Vlad?”
“I need help.”
“Does this have something to do with your business?”
“No. Well, yeah, among other things. It’s pretty complicated.”
Ricard knew what I used to do, at least some of it, but we never talked about it. He nodded. “Could it get me killed?”
I considered carefully. “I don’t think so. Not for what I want you to do, and if you stay out of the rest of it.”
“Okay. What do you need?”
“I take it you know a lot of people.”
He frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“What with playing and all that, you meet a lot of people, that’s all.”
“Well, yes.”
“Friends, acquaintances, just folks you run into, get their names, maybe hang out in an inn, or on the boat.”
“Uh huh.”
“I need to speak to some of them.”
“Uh . . . what sort of people?”
“People who need money, and don’t mind taking some risks for it.”
“So, this could get them killed?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded. “How much money?”
“Enough for each them to buy a little piece of farmland.”
His eyes widened again, then he grinned. “Can I get in on this?”
“No. It can get them killed.”
He drink some more brandy. “How likely is it?”
“To get them killed? I don’t think very, but I might be wrong.”
“Well—”
“No, Ricard. If you need that much money, I’ll give it to you, but I don’t want you involved in this. I couldn’t stand it if, you know.”
He sighed and nodded. “Okay, then. Other than wanting money, and me not caring too much if anything happens to them, are there any other qualifications you need?”
“Well, it would help if they aren’t complete idiots.”
“Most people are, you know.”
I grinned. That was one of the things we liked to argue about when too drunk to be coherent. “Find some of the exceptions,” I said.
He smiled. “I can do that. Where is Loiosh?”
“Flying around. If he’s seen with me, there goes my disguise.”
“Well, give him my best.”
“I will. I have. He returns his reptilian regards, admitting that he is unworthy of your attention, yet eternally grateful for the honor you show him.”
Ric laughed. Loiosh said, “Boss, you are so going to get it.”
“All right, then,” I said. “Can I buy you some dinner?”
“Sounds good. Let me get dressed.”
“When we’re out, call me Sandor.”
“Sandor,” he repeated. “Okay. I’ll try to remember.”
We went out and down the street, to a place that catered mostly to dockworkers. We each had a roasted fowl covered in wine, and dark bread. It was simple, but good. Ricard didn’t say much during the meal. I finally said, “Something bothering you, Ric?”
“Hmmm? No, just thinking about that list you want.”
“Ah. Good. Think you can come up with names for me?”
“Oh, yes. Easy. Do you just want the list, or should I get them together for you?”
“Good question. I think I’d like to see them one at a time.”
He nodded, and flashed me a grin. “I could get to enjoy this sneaking-around stuff.”
“You remind me of that last guy I ate with.”
“Oh?”
“He was a Dzur, so it isn’t his fault. But he liked Valabar’s.”
“You ate at Valabar’s and didn’t tell me?”
“It was sort of last-minute.”
“How was it?”
“Just like you remember it, only better.”
He nodded. “Next time?”
“You bet. On me.”
“Other than that, how have things been?”
I don’t know why I said what I did, because I’ve always thought of Ric as the sort of friend you had good times with, not the sort you dumped your troubles on. But he asked, and I heard myself say, “I’ve discovered, or maybe realized, that my Goddess has been messing with my memories.”
“Huh?”
“My Goddess—”
“The Demon Goddess?”
“Yeah. Her.”
“What did . . . I mean, what’s happened?”
“Memories have been going away and coming back. It’s been going on for years, I guess, but something happened, and I’ve managed to put some of it together. Mostly little things, but the Demon Goddess did it, and it makes me very badly want to kill her, and I’m not entirely sure that I couldn’t do it. In fact, I think I could. I want to. I—”
“Vlad!”
“Hmmm?”
“Do you hear what you’re saying?”
I sighed. “Yeah, well. With luck, she isn’t listening. Actually, the way I’m feeling right now, I half hope she is.”
“Not before I have a chance to get clear of the neighborhood, please.”
I shrugged.
He said, “About this memory stuff. How do you know the Goddess is behind it?”
“I just know.”
“You just know.”
“Yeah.”
“What sort of things—?”
“It’s little stuff, but it’s stuff that . . . well, did I ever tell you that I had been to the Paths of the Dead?”
He stared at me, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. “No, you somehow didn’t mention that.”
I nodded. “It was several years ago, and—”
“Why? Not to mention, how?”
“It was business-related.”
“Some business you’re in.”
“Yeah, I’ve had that same thought from time to time. Anyway, I visited the Paths of the Dead, and there are pieces of that journey that keep going away and coming back. Pieces I shouldn’t be able to forget.”
“Heh. Go figure.”
“Another time, I got into a jam, and called on her.”
“I’ve done that. Did she answer?”
“Yes.”
He stared at me again. “Vlad, that isn’t a joke, is it?”
“No.”
He sat back in his chair. “You have some sort of life, my friend.”
“I guess. Anyway, there are pieces of that visit—”
“Visit?”
“Yeah, odd word choice, I guess. She brought me to her halls. Or else she made me think she had, which comes out to the same thing, I suppose. And there are pieces of that visit that I’ve only just started remembering.”
“Like what?”
“She cut my palm.”
“Huh?”
“While I was talking to her, she took a knife, had me hold out my left hand, and made a cut on my palm. Then she collected some of the blood in a sort of vial or something. I don’t know what she did with it.”
“So, she has some of your blood.”
“Yes.”
“She is supposed to be a goddess of witches.”
“No, that’s one of her sisters.”
“You sure?”
“Sure? Dealing with the Demon Goddess? I’m not sure about anything.”
“The beginning of wisdom. What else?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
He flashed a smile and waited for me to continue.
“Near Deathgate Falls is a statue of Kieron the Conqueror, a general from the early days of—”
“I know who he is.”
“Okay. Well, the fellow I was with—a Dragon—prostrated himself before the statue. Then, a little later, he started talking, mumbling, like he was having a conversation with it. Then he got up, and said he knew how to get through the Paths, which he hadn’t before.”
“Hmmm. Okay.”
“Well, you see, I didn’t remember any of that until a couple of years later.”
He nodded. “I can see where that would be upsetting.”
“Yeah, well, so that’s what’s been going on.”
“Is there more?”
I shrugged. “Now and then, a few little things come back. It’s—”
“Upsetting,” he said.
I nodded. “You tend to think of what’s inside your head as your own, no matter what anything else is. Even Kiera can’t steal that.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. The point is, it keeps messing with me. Every time I think about it, I get distracted, and mad, and I want to find the Goddess and, well, you know.”
“Any practical effects?”
“Hmmm?”
“Other than how you feel about it, have you forgotten anything that mattered?”
“Well, that’s just it. I don’t know. I need to. . . .” I tried to find the words. He waited. “With what I do, I need to have confidence in my decisions. I need to find out everything I can, and then come up with a plan of action that’s as good as I can contrive. That’s how I operate.”
“I understand that.”
“Well, but the thing is, now I can’t be sure if there are important things I don’t know. And worse, what if it isn’t just memories? What if the, I don’t know, the mechanism of my thinking has been messed with? How can I commit to any sort of action, when I can’t be sure if the Goddess hasn’t been screwing around with how I make decisions?”
“Why would she do that?”
“Why would she do anything? How should I know? Maybe she has plans for me.”
He gave a humorless laugh. “That’s a comforting thought.”
“Uh huh. But, you see the problem.”
He nodded. “Did you know my people were peasants?”
“Hmmm?”
“When I was boy, we worked the land not twenty miles from here, for Lady Drenta.”
“Okay. . . .”
“One day Pa sent me out to plow a furrow. He put me at the right spot, then pointed to our old nag, Chalkie. He said, ‘Start here and aim at for where Chalkie is. But Rico—’ I said, ‘Yeah, Pa?’ ‘If Chalkie moves, you’re going to have to change your mark.’ ” He laughed, and I gave him a courtesy chuckle.
A little later, he heaved a co
ntented sigh, and pushed back from the table. I nodded, and we headed back to his place, where he made up a list with names, addresses, and best time to find each one.
“Thanks, Ric.”
“Will you let me know how it all turns out?”
“If you hear I’m dead, it didn’t work so well.”
He shook his head. “I guess, all in all, I’m glad I do what I do, not what you do.”
“Proving,” I said, “that you aren’t a Dzur.”
“I’m not sure what that means, but guess it’s good.”
“It’s good,” I said. “And good to see you again, Ric.”
“You too. And Vlad—”
“Yeah?”
“It’s easy to consider everyone a sucker who cares about things you don’t care about. So who does that make the sucker?”
“Uh, I don’t see what that connects to.”
“No, but you probably will before I do.”
I wished him a good evening.
I ducked into the first public house I came to in order to read the list. The first thing that surprised me was that I knew South Adrilankha better than I thought I did. I mean, he had notations like, “Third house south of Wrecked Bridge, on the east,” and I knew at once where that was.
There were a couple I could see right now, and I had no reason to delay.
“Still staying with me, chum?”
“What else is there to do? I don’t like this business of you wandering around without me.”
“I don’t like it much, either. Once this is over—”
“Yeah.”
Someone named Ernest was usually home in the evening, and didn’t live too far away. In the City, there were globes at various points to provide light; I’d gotten so used to them that I never thought about them. Here, though, the only light was what spilled out from houses, public and private. It was enough to keep me from tripping over ruts and dips in the road and from stumbling into people, but not much more. Still, from Ric’s description, I was able to find it: one of those place built to hold ten families of Easterners in the same space that would hold maybe three Dragaeran families. And families of Easterners are usually bigger.
I went to what should be the right door and hit it with my fist. After a moment, the door opened a crack, a pair of eyes peered out, and someone said, “Yes?”
“Ernest? My name is Sandor, and I’m a friend of Ric.”
“A friend of who?”
“Ricard. The cimbalon player.”