by Steven Brust
“To the City?”
“No. We’ll hold off on that part.”
“Oh, the fun part.”
“Uh huh.”
He and Rocza launched themselves into the air, and we set off.
Falworth Hill overlooks the Stone Bridge, which, someone once told me, is the bridge the Empress would take if she ever crossed the river. It is the place where the elite among Easterners live next to, or, at least, not too far from, Dragaerans in that odd in-between station in life where they are willing to rub shoulders with us. I’ve met a few of them; they are mostly Chreotha and Tsalmoth, with a few odd Iorich here and there. They’re strange. To Easterners who live on Falworth Hill, they are either genuinely friendly or they fake it enthusiastically. To other Easterners, they are even worse than your typical Dragonlord, if you can imagine it.
“What’s the play, Boss?”
“They have a glass window.”
“Okay, so they’re rich.”
“Yeah. You and Rocza ready to break a window?”
“Can do.”
“You sure? Remember—”
“I can do it, Boss.”
“Okay. I’ll let you know where I am. The better the timing, the more boring this is going to be.”
“I’m in favor of boring.”
“That’s two of us.”
Between Pear Orchard and Driftwood Streets in the Falworth Market is a great, square, red stone building that rents out space to several businesses. The front, where it faces the market, is a public house with a piece of wood painted on the sign. I think it was supposed to be The Driftwood Inn, but everyone calls it The Twig. It was a nice place; padded benches and chairs around dark hardwood tables, etchings on all the lanterns, and like that.
I got some stares as I walked in. The host frowned at me and might have said something about Easterners not being permitted, but I gave him a look before he could say anything, and I guess he thought better of it. Besides, I didn’t sit down; I walked straight through to the back of the room and pushed aside a curtain.
“Straight to the back, and through a—”
“I saw, Boss.”
Two Dragaerans sat at a table, looking at a ledger of some kind. Both wore the black and gray of House Jhereg.
One of them looked up at me. “Who are you supposed to be?”—which would have been an interesting question if I were still being Sandor.
“You must be Vaasci.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“I’m a messenger.”
“From?”
“Your friend Josef.”
“Who?”
I suddenly got worried; he looked sincere. “Josef,” I said. “Easterner? Ristall Market?”
“Oh, that. Well, what does he want?”
“He said that the operation is over and he’s leaving town.”
Vaasci frowned. “Why?”
“Because if he didn’t, he was going to be harmed.”
“Harmed?”
“Yeah.”
“Now, Loiosh.”
“We’re on the way.”
“By who?”
“Me.”
I smiled.
His eyes narrowed, and I had the sudden feeling he might have recognized me. Then the curtains moved and Loiosh and Rocza came flying in. Or, actually, Rocza came flying in. I was going to ask Loiosh where he was, but then things happened quickly.
They both stood up, and Rocza flew into the face of Vaasci’s friend, who lost his balance and landed in his chair again. I rammed a shoulder into Vaasci, drew a dagger, and shoved it into the one who was sitting. I caught him below the heart, left the knife there, and turned to faced Vaasci. It was like a dance. Pretty slick.
I drew Lady Teldra, and drawing her, felt a sudden rush of invincibility. I’d have to make sure not to believe that rush; it could get me into trouble. But this time, at least, it seemed justified: Vaasci made a little squeaking sound, very un-Jhereg-like, and flinched.
I heard myself say, “Drop it,” which was when I realized he was holding a dagger.
He didn’t hesitate; he just dropped it.
Lady Teldra, sweet and firm in my hand, had gotten a little shorter and a lot wider—a throat-cutting weapon. Perfect for the occasion. What a coincidence.
I said, “If I get so much as a hint that either one of you are attempting psychic contact, I will have your souls.”
I had to admire Vaasci; there wasn’t even a flicker. His friend moaned, but that was because of the steel sticking out of him. I spared him a glance and said, “You’ll live.”
He started to say something, but coughed, and there was a trickle of reddish foam around his lips. I might have been wrong.
“Loiosh—”
“Be right there, Boss. You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay,” I told Vaasci. “Now, we need to talk. I’m—”
“I know who you are.”
“Good. That saves time.”
Loiosh flew into the room and landed on my right shoulder. Rocza took up a position on my left.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“I felt something. I couldn’t pay attention, but you were—”
“Don’t worry about it, Boss.”
I studied Vaasci in silence while I thought things over.
“Got caught in the curtain, didn’t you?”
“Shut up, Boss.”
“Watch them close, Loiosh. I need to know if either one attempts psychic contact.”
“I’m on it.”
“There aren’t any curtains in the way.”
“Shut up, Boss.”
“Okay, m’lord Vaasci. We have a problem, you and I.”
He glowered. Or maybe glared. I’ve never been too sure of the difference.
“I admire your cleverness,” I said. “It was a nice move. But I can’t let it happen. Personal reasons.”
“You are so dead, Taltos, that it’s hardly worth talking to you.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. But there are things I can do before I lie down. And you probably don’t want me doing them on you.”
“Okay. Keep talking.”
“That was my plan.”
I cleared my throat.
“Like I said, the operation is over. You are out of South Adrilankha as of now. I know who you’re working for, by the way, and he doesn’t scare me. Not much scares me at this point, since, as you said, I’m pretty much dead already.”
“What aren’t you telling me, and get on with it.”
“You’ve got nerve, Lord Vaasci, I’ll give you that.”
“Spare me the compliments, dead man.”
For just a second, I wanted to shove the blade home. But I didn’t do it, and he knew I wouldn’t do it, so—“You tell your boss that . . . no. Tell your boss to tell his boss that South Adrilankha is off limits. For you, and for the Left Hand. All Jhereg operations here are off. Whatever the Easterners want to do here, they do.”
“Right, Taltos. And he’ll listen because you said so.”
“No, he’ll listen because I’m very persuasive, and because it’ll be much cheaper to leave it alone.”
“And you’re going to convince him of that.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll pass the word on.”
“Meantime, you get out of here. If I see you on this side of the river again, I don’t have to explain what will happen, do I?”
His eyes never left mine. “No, I think I’m clear enough on that.”
“Okay. Take care of your associate. He looks uncomfortable.”
I turned my back on him and walked out. Smooth.
“Loiosh?”
“They aren’t moving.”
“Okay, I’m clear. Come on out. Careful of the curtain.”
I walked through the room. The host glanced at me then quickly looked away. Two or three patrons were carefully not looking in my direction either. It was just like after an as
sassination, except that it had taken longer, and no one had died. Well, unless Vaasci’s friend succumbed to the dagger I’d left in him.
I was shaking just a little when I got onto the street. Loiosh and Rocza flew through the broken window and joined me.
I felt bad about the window.
We moved quickly back east. Loiosh said, “We survived.”
“Yes. Were you worried?”
“Me? Of course not, Boss.”
“I was. That was a risky move.”
“Well, I admit if there had happened to be a couple more there, it could have gotten interesting.”
I made it back to Six Corners, and found the pieces of Sandor right where I’d left them. Loiosh assured me that no one was around, so I put them on once more, not without a certain regret mixed with the sense of relief.
Okay, I had certainly opened the dam; now I got to see whose fields got flooded.
13
DESCANI WINE (CONTINUED)
If you follow your waiter’s recommendation, which I almost always do at Valabar’s, the wine that goes with the salad is also the wine that accompanies the fowl. I don’t actually know the reason for that, though I could speculate that it has to do with transitions.
Transitions are important in a good meal, whether the next flavor has only the most subtle differences from the previous, like between the fish and the goslingroot, where the butter and the lemon defined the flavor, or drastic differences, like between the salad and the chicken.
In this case, it was the wine that provided continuity, and reminded my mouth that, however much things changed, and however one moment was completely unlike the one that preceded it, they were both still moments in an endless stream, the product of all that has gone before, and the producer of what will follow; the lingering chill of the wine, now partaking of the fullness of a red, now of the elegance of a white, making us step back a bit from the irresistible now of the chicken, and declaring an eternal context of life, or meal.
Yeah, if you haven’t figured it out yet, food makes me philosophical. Poetic, too. Deal with it.
But there’s a point I want to make: The wine that you drink with the salad is different from the wine that you drink with the fowl. They are the same, but what is happening in your palate is so different that the wine is different too. Like when you greet a particular gentleman with the same words and in the same tone the day before and the day after you’ve agreed to put a shine on him; the context changes the significance of the greeting.
The difference in the food made it different wine; it changed everything.
“This is some good stuff,” said Telnan.
He’s not as poetic as me.
The lack of a course is a course, just like the spaces between the notes are part of the music. Actually, I wouldn’t know about that last part; it’s something Aibynn told me. But I can testify that it’s true of a good meal.
After the fowl, you know what is coming next, because it is the thing that you actually ordered—half a lifetime ago, it seems. Your order has been sitting in the back of the mind for the entire meal. Every sip, every morsel has been a delight in itself, and, at the same time, a preparation for what is next.
And so, of course, Valabar’s makes you wait for it while you drink the wine that went with the fowl.
They clear off the table, leaving you half a bottle of wine and your glasses. Then they come by and give you a whole new setting. I can’t think of any reason for them to do that unless they are deliberately delaying, building the tension. If that is the reason, I can only say it works. New plates, new flatware, new wineglasses. The sound—soft but unmistakable—of each item set on the table was like music. Or, I imagine, what music would be like to those who felt about music the way I feel about food.
“What comes next?” said Telnan.
“What you ordered.”
“Oh.”
He frowned. “I don’t remember what I ordered anymore.”
“Then you get the pleasure of being surprised.”
He nodded. “That works.”
“You pretty much take what comes, don’t you.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Not the way I mean it.”
“Uh. I guess I do.”
“Is that a Dzur trait, or is that just you?”
He blinked. I don’t think he knew how to answer that. He eventually settled for, “Why do you want to know?”
“Good question. I’m not sure.”
“You’re trying to figure out what it means to be a Dzurlord, aren’t you?”
“I guess maybe I am.”
“Why?”
“Telnan—”
“Hmmm?”
“Are you trying to figure out what it means to be a, well, a me?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“Fair is fair.”
“Oh. All right.”
“I wish the food would arrive.”
“Enjoy the anticipation, my friend.”
“My favorite part of anticipation is when it’s done, and the action starts.”
“Ah ha.”
“Hmm?”
“Just made a discovery about Dzur.”
“Oh. You still haven’t told me why you care.”
“Because I don’t believe you guys.”
“Beg pardon?”
“You could say that Dragaerans have been a sort of study of mine all my life.”
“Why?”
“Necessity. Survival.”
“Okay.”
“And I can make sense of most Dragaerans, but not Dzur. You seek out situations that I work as hard as I can to avoid. I can’t make sense of it.”
“Oh.”
“Answer your question?”
“I guess. But—”
“Yeah?”
“I wish the food would get here. I like it when the action starts.”
“All right, Loiosh. Ready for another long walk?”
“We’ll fly, if it’s all the same to you. Where are we going?”
“Back to the City.”
“Oh. Is it time for that errand?”
“Past time, I think.”
“And who’s going? You, or Sandor?”
“Sandor. I don’t think I’d make it.”
“That’s just what I was thinking.”
We took the Stone Bridge across the river, which added several hours to the walk; but it wasn’t like I had anything else to do. The day was chilly and the breeze stung a little, but I enjoyed walking in my new boots. When I’d left town before, with the Jhereg after me and my life in a shambles, I should have taken the time to get new boots. But now things were different. Now my life was in shambles and the Jhereg was after me.
Yeah.
I did get a few glances from travelers on the Stone Bridge, but I kept my eyes lowered and nothing happened. The Stone Bridge, I’ve been told, is the oldest of the bridges connecting the two parts of the City. It is certainly the narrowest, and, these days, the least used. I don’t know why it was put where it was, unless both parts of the City grew in different directions than anticipated. Which doesn’t make sense—you’d think that, once the bridge was up, it would determine how the City grew. But that was a long time ago, and just goes on the list of things I don’t understand.
The bridge has always felt solid, though; what more can one ask?
I took a wide detour around the Imperial Palace—or, more precisely, the Jhereg Wing—in part because of what Kiera had said. I am not entirely free of superstition. Loiosh was merciful, and didn’t make any remarks about it.
It was getting on toward evening when I struck Lower Kieron Road and my old neighborhood. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I could feel Loiosh become even more alert. I kept wanting to rest my hand on Lady Teldra’s hilt, but managed to restrain myself.
It was even hard not to stop outside of my old office and stare at it for a while. Again, I resisted. I went straight in; a harmless East
erner who couldn’t threaten a norska, that was me. Or, rather, Sandor.
I think after about two months of being Sandor I’d have to cut my throat.
The proprietor of the herb shop politely asked me if I wished assistance. This was gratifying; evidently working for an Easterner for several years had left its mark. I gave him a big smile.
“I’m looking for a gift for my uncle,” I said.
He didn’t respond at once; I suppose that wasn’t all that uncommon a phrase. He said, “What sort of herbs does he usually consume?”
I cleared my throat. “I’m looking for a gift for my uncle,” I said again, very carefully.
“Oh!” He stared at me, but even looking couldn’t see through the disguise. Which was odd; it wasn’t much of a disguise. He said, “What sort of gift did you have in mind?”
“Anything you sell will be perfect.”
He nodded, gave me a funny look, and said, “We haven’t used that code in three years.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. What’s the—no, never mind. Excuse me.”
He nodded, and I went past him into the next room.
The Shereba game was going, and I could swear the same stumps were in the same chairs in the same positions with the same piles of coins stacked the same way as the last time I’d been in there. If I’d looked at their faces, no doubt I’d have seen a difference, but it wasn’t worth it. The muscle-on-duty gave me a glance. I differentially pointed at the far door, and gave a sort of bob of my head. He nodded, and I passed through to the stairway.
A Jhereg I didn’t recognize was leaning against the wall at the top of the stairs. I stopped halfway up and said, “Is Kragar in?”
“I think so,” he said. “Who should I say—”
“Tell him someone is here with a message from Kiera the Thief.”
His eyes widened a little, and I think I gained some respect. His face went blank for a moment, then he said, “Bide.”
I nodded.
A moment later he said, “Okay, go on up.”
I climbed the familiar stairs, and it occurred to me that this place, that had once been my office, might be the only establishment in the Empire where an Easterner could expect to be treated politely. As a legacy, I could do worse.
I didn’t recognize the fellow sitting behind what had been Melestav’s desk before Melestav had succumbed to temptation. He nodded to me, and said, “It’s that door. Go right in.”