by Steven Brust
Interesting place to put an armory. No, a really nonsensical place to put an armory.
Halberds, mostly. No dust, but also a quick test revealed they weren’t especially sharp. Mostly for show? Yeah, probably. In one corner was a stand with eight broadswords, also dust-free, but they, too, could use some time with a whetstone. A shelf next to them had daggers—six of them decorative, full of cheap gems and gold coating, and another eight that were fully functional, if a bit dull. I picked them up one at a time. Decently made, triangular, good point, solid hilt, leather-wrapped grip. I resisted the urge to steal some, but I wanted to, just because. These weren’t balanced for throwing, but were nicely balanced for off-hand fighting. Not works of art by any means, but examples of good, solid craftsmanship. Gosh, I love daggers. I put them back.
4
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HARRO
I left the armory, crossed the hall, opened the other door, and was once more looking down the hallway that should have been a floor below me. Rocza did a nervous dance on my shoulder, shuffling to one side and back; I caught Loiosh’s head bobbing around from the corner of my eye; they were becoming a little upset about the place too, either picked up from me or just on their own.
There are any number of folktales about buildings that are alive, and have their own wishes. Sometimes, especially in Dragaeran tales, it wants to kill the hero. In Eastern tales, it often wants to protect him. A lot of what was going on would make more sense if I accepted those stories as true, and figured the place was trying to tell me something, or save me from something, or get me to do something. I eat well, but there are things I have trouble swallowing.
“Loiosh?”
“I’m with you, Boss. I don’t believe in buildings that have their own plans.”
“Good.”
“But then, until we met Sethra, I didn’t believe anyone could be older than the Empire. And until we met a Jenoine, I didn’t—”
“Thanks.”
The door was still open, and still showed the fancy corridor. I shrugged and continued, turned a corner, and heard a cough behind me.
“Ah, there you are, my lord.”
“Hello, Harro. Yes, I was stretching my legs.”
“Yes, my lord. I’m grieved to tell you that we have not managed to open the door.”
“I’m concerned to hear it.”
“It’s getting late. I am instructed to see that you are given dinner and a room for the night.”
“That is very kind. This dinner of which you speak. Where is it to come from?”
“My lord? The cooks prepare the food. In the kitchen. I don’t understand what you ask.”
“Never mind,” I said.
“Permit me to show you to a room where you may refresh yourself.”
“Lead the way,” I said.
As we walked, I said, “Do you know Hevlika?”
From the corner of my eye, I caught a brief tightening of his shoulders.
“The dancer?”
“Unless there’s another.”
He coughed into his fist. “Why, yes, I have the honor of knowing her.”
“Good dancer, isn’t she?”
“Why yes, my lord.”
“How long have you known her?”
“My lord? She was here—that is, part of the household—before I arrived, so as long as I’ve been with Lord Zhayin. At the old castle, of course.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
He looked deeply uncomfortable; all he could manage was a muttered, “I couldn’t say, I’m sure.”
I don’t know if it was Issola impenetrability, or butler impenetrability, but I couldn’t penetrate it so I let the matter drop. He opened a door and stepped aside. I was hit with an odd pang: Cawti, at one time at least, would have loved a room like this, all velvet drapes in red and gold, plush carpet, stuffed chairs, a bed you could hold a party in. There was a washbasin and jug on the table, an inlaid chamber pot beneath it, and a stack of towels. The water jug next to the basin was steaming.
“It’s a very nice room,” I said. “And someone certainly prepared it quickly.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Harro. “Should you require anything, pull that rope once and I shall come immediately. I will clap when dinner is ready.”
“Will I have the honor of dining with Lord Zhayin?”
“I’m afraid I do not know, m’lord.”
“All right.”
“Will that be all, m’lord?”
“Sure.”
He bowed and backed out, shutting the door behind him in front of him. I wondered how long you had to practice something like that. I poured some hot water onto a towel and ran it over my face, because I always grab luxury when I can. I laid down on the bed. It was awfully soft. But then, after having been in the wilds for so long, anything better than hard ground felt soft. I closed my eyes and drifted off for a bit.
Loiosh woke me up just before the clap came. I sat up, blinked, and said, “How long did I sleep?”
“Not long, Boss. Maybe half an hour.”
“Come in,” I called, and Harro did so, holding a bronze-colored tray with one hand at shoulder level. Somehow, even when I’d had money, I’d never gotten around to hiring servants. He set the tray on the table and bowed to me, and I decided that was a shame. Servants would have been nice.
When he’d gone, I sat down to a roasted fowl stuffed with greenfruit, spiral mushrooms, and capers; it should have tasted better than it did, but Loiosh and Rocza approved. The wine had been decanted so I couldn’t read the label, but it was a very full red, and good.
“If we go back to that kitchen, Loiosh, it’ll still show no signs of use.”
“Yeah.”
“Think we’ll ever figure out what’s going on around here?”
“Hope so, or I’ll never have any peace. More exploring, or do we want to get some sleep?”
“You think I could sleep now, Loiosh?”
“Probably.”
I thought about it. “Yeah, you’re right.”
I really needed sleep.
The smell of klava woke me up. It was on the stand next to the bed. I swung my feet down to the floor, managed to lift the klava glass, and sampled it. I’d had better, but it was drinkable. Over on the table were a few small round loaves of bread with a hole. They were of a type I’d had once before, back when Lady Teldra was still Lady Teldra. They’d been toasted and buttered. I prefer a more substantial breakfast when I can get it, but there have been times I hadn’t managed any at all, so I called it a push. The two jhereg sat at the foot of the bed, and I got the impression they were waiting for me to wake up so they could eat. It’s possible Loiosh had to remind Rocza to wait, but I didn’t ask.
I took my time eating the bread and drinking the klava. There have been times I’ve had to wake up and deal with someone being anti-social before my brain started working, but whenever possible, I like to take my time. I had an uncomfortable moment when I suddenly realized that someone had snuck into the room with food without me waking up.
“It was Harro,” said Loiosh. “I was awake.”
“All right, then.”
The klava was better than the coffee I’d had yesterday, but klava is always better than coffee. Well, isn’t it?
“All right,” I said aloud. And to Loiosh, “Now what?”
“When did it become my job to—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I got up and used the chamber pot, splashed some water on my face, and got dressed. I made sure the surprises I concealed about my person—not nearly as many as I had once carried—were in place. I was about to step into the hall when there came a clap outside the door. I opened it, and Harro was there.
“Well,” I said. “Good morning.” And, “Loiosh, are we being watched?”
“Not magically,” he said.
“Good morning, m’lord,” said Harro. “I was wondering if you would care for another glass of klava.”
I shook my head. �
�Have you checked the door?”
“I fear it remains sealed, my Lord.”
“And the secret entrance?”
“Sir?”
“A castle like this must have a secret entrance or two. Have you checked?”
“If it has one, my lord, it is secret.”
“Heh. Mind if explore a bit?”
“My lord, my instructions are to request that you remain here until we have solved the problem.”
“Good, then,” I said. “Agreed. Your request has been heard.”
I pushed past him, turned right, then left, heading in the direction of the kitchen, and the place I’d seen whatever it was that I’d seen.
“Sir?” said Harro. He caught up to me.
“Not to worry,” I told him. “I always like to take a nice walk in the morning. I’m thinking there might be a pale, big, ugly thing to talk to.”
He swallowed. “I must insist—”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
“M’lord, please.”
“You really don’t want me investigating, do you?”
He coughed, I guess trying to figure out how to answer the question without giving me any information. I considered the matter. A lot of what I do is pulling information from people, and that means figuring out the best approach for that person. Everyone is different. Some will respond to being smacked around or other forms of reason, some have to be tricked, some cajoled. And it isn’t always easy to tell. With Harro, I leaned against the wall, folded my arms, and said, “If you don’t want me wandering about, maybe we can have a conversation.”
He shifted his weight a couple of times, then said, “What would you like to know, sir?”
One thing I wanted to know was why I was sometimes “sir” and sometimes “my lord,” but I figured that was kind of a low priority. “This place is lousy with things I don’t understand, so maybe just pick one and explain it.”
“My lord, I—”
“All right. Try this: You’ve been unwilling to tell me anything about anything. Every time I’ve tried to learn anything, you stiffen up like—you get stiff, and you don’t give anything away. But that one thing, that weird whatever-it-was I just threatened to go look at, when I mention that, your eyes crinkle and your left hand twitches and from the way you swallow I think it makes your mouth dry. So, why that? What makes that one personal?”
He stared straight ahead, but I had the impression it took some effort.
I stretched out my legs, smiled at him, and waited.
He shook his head.
“All right,” I said. “Whatever. You don’t have to tell me.” I snapped my wrist and a dagger fell into my hand. I could have just drawn one, but the effect of having it appear like magic couldn’t do any harm. He made a tiny squeaking sound and pushed himself against the wall, his eyes wide, his lips pressed firmly together, his teeth clenched.
“Oh, don’t worry,” I told him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
He kept staring at me like he didn’t believe me. I pushed away from the wall, flipped the dagger, and caught it. “It’s just that I’m really annoyed at not getting answers to my questions. So I think I’ll go find Lord Zhayin and cut his throat, just to make myself feel better. Excuse me.”
I took one step, and he said, “No!”
I stopped and turned. “Hmmm?”
“Please.”
“Then tell me why you get so upset when I bring it up? I’m not asking for the big secret, you know. I just want to know why it bothers you so much.”
Here’s where I could give you all sorts of crap about watching the internal battle going on behind his eyes or something, but, really, no. No battle. He crumbled.
“All right,” he said. “It’s because it, what happened, was my fault.”
I nodded. “Go on,” I said.
Pulling information out of someone who knows how not to give it involves, first, finding the right lever, then teasing each bit and snippet out, using what you know to get what you don’t. A guy like Harro is different: once you get him started, you’ll get everything; all you need to worry about is what you want and in what order. In this case, I didn’t have to worry about that either. It just came spilling out.
* * *
You must understand, sir, that service is a tradition of my family. As far back as the last Issola reign, when so many of our House acquired holdings and lived as landlords, my family never did. For us, service to others has always been the greatest joy. Most of my family were killed in the Disaster, but I, with a few others, was in the Duchies and so escaped the immediate effects. We wandered, and looked for those who had survived and whose houses needed putting into order. Eventually, late in the Interregnum (though of course, we didn’t know it would end soon) a Dragonlord named Kâna instituted a post service for sending and receiving messages, and that is how I learned of Housetown. Not long after I came here, the previous butler stepped down and I took his place and I have had the honor to occupy this position ever since. Honor, m’lord, and if I may say so, pleasure. My mother used to say, “There is satisfaction in doing something well, and satisfaction in having done something well, and they are not the same.” For me, it is the former that gives me pleasure. Does that help you understand, sir?
My duties, as a rule, have to do with attending my Lord Zhayin and supervising the other servants, but before, when we lived at Housetown, we would often receive guests, and it was then my honor to see to them, as I am attempting to do with you, m’lord. Other concerns would arise from time to time, but it was mostly a matter of doing what I was used to, what I knew how to do. I know many would find this tiresome, but I did not. Indeed, I must confess that I became uncomfortable when, on occasion, there would be a requirement to do something outside of my duties. Once I was tasked with feeding the horses while the stable-boy was being married and the others were at the wedding, and, as simple as it was, with all of the directions neatly explained, I still recall the sweat on my palms. You may laugh if you wish, but it is true. On another occasion, I had to act as valet to Prince Ferund when he made a sudden visit to our home, and, well, I was in a state of near panic the entire time—not because he was a Prince, but because I was unused to being a valet.
That is how I am, sir. It is my nature. I think it important for you to understand this if you are to make sense of what happened.
We felt the Disaster as it happened, of course—the family here, and I, in the grasslands near Suntra. But the most remarkable thing about the Interregnum, from what they tell me, was what little effect it had on this household. My lord would still receive the occasional commission, and had sufficient savings that they had no need to concern themselves with such vulgarities as money.
So it was when Lord Zhayin’s son was born, early in the Interregnum, and so it was a little more than a Turn later, when I came here. The birth was, from all accounts, a joyous event for all the household, as I’m sure you can imagine, though I cannot speak from personal knowledge. My Lord hired a wet-nurse and a dry-nurse, and, after a certain amount of disruption, the house settled into a routine. The young gentleman grew, as children will, and a tutor was hired as well. He was a bright, inquisitive child who loved to draw, of course, and also enjoyed looking into corners and closets; I am told he kept his nurse busy, as you may imagine, but he fit into the household in his own way.
I arrived and took my position. Housetown is deep in the Blue Valley, north of the Guinchen region, and so was isolated from the worst of the effects; food was readily available, and the plagues passed us by. There were, of course, illnesses here and there as medical sorcery was no longer effective, but the local physickers were able to treat these well enough.
As for my lord, the loss of sorcerous ability turned out to be a stroke of fortune. Many sorcerers, of course, received educational benefits from the absence of the Orb. My understanding is limited, you understand, as I am not a sorcerer myself, but it is well known that the requi
rement to reach directly into the amorphia without the Orb’s intervention has forced many to learn a great deal. My Lord Zhayin was no exception. In his case, he made certain discoveries in necromancy. Are you familiar with it? It is the study of unreal paths to real places, or real paths to unreal places. It begins with death, you see—that transition through which we all pass. The studies of my Lord Zhayin, aimed at eliminating the boundary between a structure and a location, or, to put it another way, between where one stands within a structure and where that position is exclusive of the structure, has necromancy at its heart. It may help if I explain that to do this—to integrate the pathways between worlds with the structures within a world has been a goal of Vallista architects for tens of thousands of years. My lord, then, as you can imagine, made great progress in this.
You recall, sir, that I mentioned the occasional illness. We were all struck by these at one time or another, and they were an intolerable annoyance. More, we were all terrified for the child, as we were told by the physickers that the young are more vulnerable to disease than adults. We exercised what care we could, and the child was never in danger. And so it went, until the dry-nurse became ill with the grippe, and before we knew it, she had infected the tutor and the second cook. It was for this reason that the child became, for a time, my responsibility.
It was the most difficult thing I have ever attempted, sir. Not for the reasons you might, perhaps, expect: learning to interact with a child is simply a more extreme case of what I have always done, that is, learn to interact with every individual as best I can for the comfort of that person. A Vallista Prince, or, if you will forgive me, a Jhereg Easterner, it is a matter of sensitivity, observation, and flexibility. So, no, learning to care for the child was by no means beyond my abilities. What made it difficult was that I was so weary. So very tired. I still had all of my own duties. I ate while walking, when I ate, and rested when I could. It is astonishing how quickly one becomes exhausted. After a week I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. Have you been that weary, sir? I look at you, and—I hope you do not think me impertinent—I think you have a wide variety of experience, so I suspect you know what it is like to go through a day with your eyes never fully opening, where half of the things you do you don’t recall and can only hope you did them properly, when your thoughts are focused on the next time you sleep. If you haven’t had that experience, I can’t describe it, and if you have, I don’t need to.