by Steven Brust
“The air?”
“The air in the city is really dry. I haven’t been able to make my drum sound right since I got here.”
This was the first time I’d ever heard anyone suggest that Adrilankha, a city pushed flat against the southern coast, was too dry. “Oh,” I said.
“Why do they wear masks?”
“Who?”
“The drummers.”
“Oh. Hmmm. I’ve never thought about it.”
He nodded and wandered off to the blue room. As he left, he was running his fingers across the piece of leather, still holding his drum under his arm.
I noticed Cawti looking at me, but I couldn’t read her expression.
“Calfskin,” I told her. “They make the drums out of calfskin.”
“Nothing to it, when you know,” she said.
“Maybe that’s our problem, though. Maybe the air here is too dry for us.”
She smiled gently. “I’ve suspected that for a long time.”
I nodded and settled back in my chair. Rocza landed on her arm and stared up at me quizzically. “Calfskin,” I told her. She flew off again.
I SAT IN THE lower east parlor of Castle Black and looked at the Lord Morrolan. He didn’t look so tall sitting down.
After a while he said, “What is it, Vlad?”
“I want to talk about revolution.”
He cocked his head and raised both eyebrows. “Please?”
“Revolution. Peasant uprising. Violence in the streets.”
“What about it?”
“Could it happen?”
“Certainly. It has before.”
“Successfully?”
“That depends upon the meaning you choose for success. There have been rulers slain by their own peasants. During the War of the Barons there was a case where an entire county—I believe Longgrass—was turned into—”
“I mean more long-term success. Could the peasants take and hold power?”
“In the Empire?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible. Not until the Cycle points to the Teckla, in any case, which will be several thousand years from now. We’ll both be safely dead by then.”
“You’re quite certain?”
“That we’ll be dead?”
“No, that it couldn’t happen.”
“I’m certain. Why?”
“There’s this group of revolutionaries that Cawti’s gotten involved with.”
“Ah, yes. Sethra mentioned something about them a few weeks ago.”
“Sethra? How would she know?”
“Because she is Sethra.”
“Mmmm. What did she say?”
Morrolan paused, looking up at the ceiling as he remembered. “Very little, actually. She seemed to be concerned, but I don’t know why.”
“Perhaps I should speak with her, then.”
“Perhaps. She will be coming here later this evening to discuss the war.”
I felt a frown settle around my lips. “What war?”
“Well, there isn’t one yet. But surely you’ve heard the news.”
“No,” I said hesitantly. “What news?”
“An Imperial cargo vessel, the Song of Clouds, was rammed and sunk yesterday by raiders from Greenaere.”
“Greenaere,” I said, swallowing bile. “Oh.”
Lesson 7
Matters of State I
MORROLAN, ALIERA, AND I lunched in the small den, with an opening onto a balcony that looked down at the ground a mile below. I did not partake of the view. Morrolan’s cooks prepared a cold soup of duck with cinnamon, an assortment of chilled fruit, kethna with thyme and honey, various green vegetables with ginger and garlic, and wafers dipped in a strawberry glaze. As was his custom, he laid out several wines with the meal, rather than selecting one for each course. I had a dry white from the Tan Coast, and stayed with it for the whole meal, except for dessert, when I switched to what my grandfather would have called plum brandy, but the Dragaerans called plum wine.
The subject was war. Aliera’s green eyes were bright as she speculated about landings on Greenaere, while Morrolan thoughtfully considered naval commissions. I kept trying to find out why it was happening. After shrugging off the question several times, Aliera said, “How can we know why they did it?”
“Well, hasn’t there been any communication between the Empire and the island?”
“Perhaps,” said Morrolan. “But we know nothing of it.”
“You could ask Norathar—”
“There is no need,” said Aliera. “She’ll tell us as much as she can, when she can.”
I glowered into my duck and tossed down more wine. I don’t usually toss wine down; I tend to drink it in installments of two or three gulps at a time. Aliera, who holds her glass like she’s holding a bird, bottom two fingers properly under the stem, takes tiny lady-like sips at dinner, but when she’s out in the field, as I happen to know, she’ll slug it down like anyone else. Morrolan always holds the glass by the bowl, as if it were a stemless tumbler, and takes long, slow sips, his eyes looking across at his dinner partner, or the person with whom he is speaking. Now he was looking at me. He replaced his glass, which contained something thick and purple, and said, “Why are you so interested?”
Aliera snorted before I had time to speak. “What do you think, cousin? He was just there, and everyone was after him. He wants to know if whatever he did caused this. I don’t know why he should care, but that’s what he’s after.”
I shrugged. Morrolan nodded slowly. “What did you do?”
“Nothing I can talk about.”
“He probably killed someone,” said Aliera.
Morrolan said, “Did you kill someone of sufficient importance to prompt anger at the Empire?”
“Let’s change the subject,” I said.
“As you wish,” said Morrolan.
Ginger and cinnamon were the main scents of this meal. Loiosh sat on my left shoulder and received occasional scraps. He thought there was too much ginger in the vegetable dish. I told him that, in the first place, there was no such thing as too much ginger and, in the second, jhereg don’t eat vegetables. He was saying something about jhereg in the wild versus civilized jhereg when one of Morrolan’s servants, an elderly woman who moved like a Serioli water clock and had streaks of black in her grey hair, entered and announced, “Sethra Lavode.”
We all stood. Sethra entered, bowed slightly, and seated herself between Aliera and me. She always preferred to be announced without titles; part of her mystique, I guess, though I couldn’t say if it was sincere or contrived. You haven’t met her yet, so picture if you will a tall Dragaeran wearing a black blouse with big, puffy sleeves drawn tight around her wrists, black trousers tucked into calf-high black boots, a silver chain from which hung a pendant depicting a dragon’s head with two yellow gems for eyes, and long silver dangling-things on her ears that glittered when she moved. She had the high, sharp cheekbones of a Dragonlord and the pointed Dzur hairline. Her eyes, which slanted upward as a Dzurlord’s, were dark and set deep in her head, and looking into them one always felt the danger of being lost in the thousands of years of undead memory she held. Iceflame, blue hilt against the black, created echoes inside my mind. She was a vampire, a sorcerer, a warrior, and a statesman. Her powers were legendary. Sometimes I thought she was my friend.
“You are discussing the war, I presume?” she said.
“We have been,” said Morrolan. “Have you news?”
“Yes. Greenaere has formed an alliance with Elde Island.”
Aliera and Morrolan exchanged looks that I couldn’t interpret, then Morrolan said, “That’s rather surprising, considering their histories.”
Sethra shook her head. “They haven’t actually fought since before the Interregnum.”
“Last time we fought Elde,” said Aliera, “Greenaere was on our side.”
“Yes,” said Sethra. “And they lost half their fleet for their trouble.”
“Fleet
?” said Morrolan. “Then they have a navy?”
“They have many fishing boats, and most of them are capable of long voyages. The fishermen become their navy when they need one.”
“Do they have a standing army?” asked Aliera.
“Not to speak of,” I said.
They both looked at me. When I didn’t elaborate, Morrolan cleared his throat and said, “Elde does.”
“It seems strange,” I said, “that they think they can win against the Empire.”
“Perhaps,” said Aliera, “they’re hoping it won’t come to war.”
“In that case, they’re stupid,” said Morrolan.
“Not necessarily,” said Aliera. “They haven’t done so badly in the past. There have been nine wars with Elde, and—”
“Eleven,” said Sethra. “Twelve if you include the first invasion of Dragaerans, but I suppose we oughtn’t to include that one.”
“However many,” said Aliera. “The Empire has never won decisively. If we had, they’d be part of us.”
Morrolan made a dismissing gesture. “They’ve always been hurt worse than we have.”
“Not always,” said Aliera. “They attacked during the Ash Mountain uprising, and we had to negotiate a peace. A common ancestor of ours was beheaded for that fiasco, Morrolan.”
“Ah, yes,” he said. “I remember. But other than that—”
“And during the fifteenth Issola reign, they attacked again and we had to sue for peace.”
“There was a war with the East at the time.”
“All right, so as long as we’re not distracted—”
“So,” interrupted Sethra. “Just what is going on in South Adrilankha, Vlad?”
First Morrolan, then Aliera stopped and looked at me as the significance of what she’d said hit.
“Good question,” I said. “I’ve been wondering about that myself.”
AMONG MY ENFORCERS AND bodyguards was a guy called Sticks, named for his favorite weapon. I called him into my office and had him sit down. He did, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his demeanor relaxed. He always seemed relaxed. Even when he was in action, which I’ve seen close up during a recent incident I don’t care to dwell on, he never seemed to be hurried or upset. I said to him, “You told me once that you used to work connecting musicians with inns that wanted music.”
He nodded.
“Do you still have much connection with it?”
“Not really.”
“Do you know the others in the business?”
“Oh, yeah. There are eight or ten who keep it pretty well locked up.”
“Name some names.”
“Sure. There’s a woman named Aisse. I wouldn’t work with her, though.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “She never seems to know quite what she’s doing. And when she does, she never lets the musicians know. Word is she lies a lot, especially when she screws up.”
“Okay. Who else?”
“There’s a fellow named Phent who doesn’t lie quite as much, but he’s about as incompetent and he charges twice what everyone else does. He’s got a lock on the low-life places. They suit him.”
“I might need him. Where can I find him?”
“Number fourteen Fishmonger Street.”
“Okay, who else?”
“There’s Greenbough. He’s not too bad when he isn’t drunk. D’Rai will keep you working, but she’ll also get a hold on you and try to keep everything you play sounding the same. Most of the musicians I know don’t like that.”
“Blood of the goddess, Sticks, isn’t there anyone good in the business?”
“Not really. The best of the lot is an outfit run by three Easterners named Tomas, Oscar, and Ramon. They have South Adrilankha and a few of the better inns north of town.”
“How do I reach them?”
“About a mile and a half up Lower Kieron, behind the Wolves’ Den, upstairs.”
“I know the place. Okay, thanks.”
“Mind if I ask why you’re interested, boss?”
“I’d rather not say, at the moment.”
“All right. That all?”
“Yeah. Have Melestav send Kragar in.”
As he shut the door, Kragar said, “Mind if I ask why you’re interested, Vlad?”
I jumped, stared at him, and said, “Were you here the whole time?”
“I didn’t know it was private.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m after a couple of things. One is to see if I can help Aibynn find work. The other is to get another source of information in South Adrilankha. Musicians hear almost as much gossip as whores.”
“Makes sense.”
“Since you’ve already got the information, why don’t you go make contact with that group behind the Wolves’ Den?”
“What, you want me to do something safe and easy for a change? Sure. What about this Aibynn? Will they need to hear him?”
“Maybe. I’ll talk to him and send him by. But first see if they’re interested in making a little money on the side, without needing to know who’s paying them.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“No. Anything here?”
“Tevyar got excited again.”
“Oh?”
“Some Iorich owed him money and started acting tough, and Tevyar tried to handle it on his own, got enthusiastic, and killed him. You know how he is.”
“Yes. He’s an idiot. Revivifiable?”
“No. Crushed his head.”
“Double idiot. Is it likely to cause any trouble?”
“Not as far as I can tell. He didn’t leave any traces.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Should we do anything about it?”
I considered for a moment, then shook my head. “Not this time. Having to cover the loss ought to teach him something. If not . . .”
“Right.”
Loiosh flew over to my shoulder from the coatrack. I scratched under his chin. “What about Kelly’s people? Anything to report?”
Kragar shifted in his chair and his normally expressionless face fought with itself for a moment, as if uncertain how to settle down.
“The Empire has begun conscription in South Adrilankha.”
“So soon?”
He nodded. “Only Easterners, too.”
“Interesting. Have Kelly’s people done anything about it?”
“They had some sort of parade. About a thousand people, give or take.”
I whistled. “Anything happen?”
“No. It looked like they were going to send in press gangs, but they didn’t.”
“With a thousand crazed Easterners, I’m not surprised.”
“There’s supposed to be some sort of meeting or rally tomorrow evening.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Routine stuff. It’s on your desk.”
“Fly, then, and let me know what happens.”
When he was gone, I looked at the scribbled notes he and Melestav had left. I okayed credit for a couple of good customers, agreed that we needed some new furnishings in one of my gambling places, refused a request for additional manpower at another, and made a few notes on my calendar for business meetings.
None of which I really needed to attend.
In fact, I wasn’t really needed for much of any of this.
Things had reached the point around the office where it would practically run itself. I suppose I could have been bothered by this, but actually I was pleased. I had worked very hard to get it to this point. The irony was that it came just when I had the additional problem of South Adrilankha to worry about, so I couldn’t really enjoy it. It crossed my mind that I would probably never reach the point where I could just sit back and watch the money roll in, and only deal with major problems.
But, on the other hand, maybe if that ever happened, I’d have too much time on my hands.
Loiosh shifted on my shoulder and I scratched his chin. Conscription in South Adrilankh
a. Why? Was war with Greenaere really imminent? Was the war scare an excuse to harass Easterners? If the war was real, had I caused it? If so, why had Verra sent me to shine the King? Well, that part was easy: because she wanted the war. Why?
I called out to her, just to see if she felt like responding, but she didn’t. I wished I could ask her directly. I’d like to be able to find out what was going on in the strange, non-human mind of hers.
I entertained sacrilegious thoughts for a while, but they got me nowhere, so instead I considered the war. If you looked at a map of the Empire, the notion of war with Greenaere would seem laughable—this huge monster of a landmass next to a little splotch shaped like a banana. It made no sense. They must know that. The Empire must know it. What was going on? Who was pushing whom, to try to do what? What sort of intrigues were being played out in the Imperial Palace? What sort of lunacies on Greenaere? What sort of machinations in the Halls of Judgment?
“You know, boss, it might not matter. You might be out of it, now that you’ve done what you were hired for.”
“Do you really think so?”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
I SPOKE TO AIBYNN that evening while waiting for Cawti to come back home. I told him about that group behind the Wolves’ Den. He nodded, his eyes focused on something else.
“Why don’t you go in and see them?” I said.
“What? Oh. Yeah. I’ll do that.”
The conversation faltered, and he went back to the blue room. I chewed my lip, wondering. Loiosh stopped chasing Rocza around the flat long enough to echo my own thoughts: “What a strange fellow, boss.”
“Indeed,” I said. “But just strange, or does he have a game of some sort?”
Cawti hadn’t come home when I went to sleep that night, and she still hadn’t when I left the next morning. A year ago I’d have been frantic. Half a year ago I’d have attempted to reach her psionically. Things had changed.
When I got to the office, Melestav said, “Heard the news yet?”
I sighed. “No. Do I need to be sitting down?”
“I’m not sure. Word is out that Greenaere has made an alliance with Elde Island.”