by Steven Brust
I crossed over to him. He gave me the usual merchant appraising glance, the one where he’s decided if you might actually buy something. He didn’t seem especially excited by me, but managed a nod. Hanging from hooks and sitting on sturdy tables were teapots, coffeepots, hinges, cups, boilers, and even some engraved plates, all of them in that reddish gold color. I warmed to him; I always admire people who can make things.
“You’re a tinsmith,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow and sniffed. “Hardly. I’m a respectable merchant and a member of the Guild. All of the tinsmiths sell through this shop, or they don’t sell around here.”
Suddenly I wanted to see how many coffeepots I could shove down his throat. I said, “I see,” and continued looking around the shop. He watched me like I was going to steal something. I was tempted to, just on principle.
“Boss, remind me again why you won’t kill an Easterner.”
“I never said I wouldn’t kill an Easterner. I said I won’t accept money to kill an Easterner.”
“In that case—”
“I am not killing him, and no, you may not eat him even if I do. Besides, that much fat would be bad for you.”
I studied the wares, careful not to touch anything, because if he’d said anything about “handling the goods” I would have killed him.
“The Guild,” I repeated.
“Yes, young man. So watch your step.”
“I’m new in town. What guild is that?”
He sniffed. “The Merchants’ Guild, of course.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“Boss—”
“Hush. I’m working.” I gave the guy the sort of smile that means nothing and said, “This is a local Guild, or is it part of a larger Guild throughout the country?”
He gave me what I’m sure he thought was a Penetrating Stare. “Why would you want to know that?”
“Just curious.”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Just curious.”
It was interesting, though. Last night, there was someone who had just assumed I was an aristocrat; and now this guy just assumed I was some sort of thug, or criminal. I hate it when people make those kinds of assumptions about me. It makes me want to break their legs.
I said, “Does the name Merss mean anything to you?”
His scowl deepened. “Are you threatening me?”
“No.”
“I don’t respond to threats, young man.”
“That’s good, because I don’t issue them.”
“I think you had best leave my establishment.”
Establishment. He had an establishment.
I shrugged and walked out because I didn’t think staying would be productive, and because that was probably the last thing he expected me to do.
“That,” I told Loiosh, “was one of the more interesting conversations I’ve had in a life full of interesting conversations.”
“Meaning you have no idea what just happened, right?”
“Right. Only something did. Didn’t it?”
“Sure, Boss. Is there a reason you think it might be connected with what you’re looking for?”
“Loiosh, I mentioned the name of my family and he thought I was threatening him.”
He didn’t answer.
I walked down the street about ten paces before I was hit with a wave of nostalgia like I hadn’t thought I could feel. I was standing in front of a tiny little place, with what looked like a fresh coat of dark green stain on the thin-looking exterior, and no window, and a doorway covered by a thick curtain of pale wool. Hanging from the low eaves were herbs: mistletoe, koelsch, thyme, spinnerseed, eddieberry. My grandfather’s shop had looked different, but smelled the same. I stood outside for a moment, feeling the smile on my lips, then pushed aside the curtain and went in.
It was dark inside, a smoky, flickering lamp at either end making the pottery on shelves and plants on hangers jump and twitch. As I stood there, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, the flickering subsided.
The fellow in the shop was nothing like my grandfather. He had one of those faces that looked like someone had grabbed hold of the chin and pulled, with a high domed forehead and a receding hairline to increase the effect. He wore a sweat-stained singlet that had once been blue and loose pantaloons of brown. I couldn’t guess his age within thirty years. He looked me up and down with pale brown eyes and an expression that reminded me of the guy I’d just been speaking with. It was obvious he didn’t like me. Maybe it was the jhereg on my shoulders. Then again, maybe it was just me. I refrained from breaking his left kneecap and right instep. I didn’t even think about it.
He dipped his head in a bow so perfunctory he could have taught Morrolan a few things about being rudely polite, and waited for me to say something. I finally settled on, “Have you any shaba-salt?”
“No,” he said.
I paused, then decided on the direct approach. “What’s the problem?”
“No problem,” he said, tight-lipped. “I don’t have any, that’s all.”
“Not that. Your attitude. What have I done to you? You don’t like how I’m dressed or something?”
“You’re a witch,” he said.
Now, that I gotta explain. “Witch” is the only way to translate it, but what he actually used was a Fenarian word, erdergbassor, that means, sort of, “witch who does nasty things to people,” or maybe, “witch who studies things nice people don’t talk about.” Something like that. It was a word I knew, but not one I’d ever expected to hear directed at my sweet, lovable self.
I spoke to my familiar, who had picked up the translation from my mind. “Loiosh? Any ideas?”
“Color me stunned, Boss. Not a clue.”
I drew a little circle on the counter with my finger, while looking at the merchant—I call him a merchant because I had trouble thinking of him as a witch. “I’ve never been called that before,” I told him.
“Don’t threaten me, young man. I’m a mem—”
“Member of the Guild,” I said it with him. “Yeah. So, what is it that makes me a witch?” I asked him, using that same word.
He just glared at me. I wondered how long I could go without needing to hurt someone. It was odd: while surrounded by Dragaerans, I was never tempted to start messing with humans; but here, with no Dragaerans around, the idea didn’t bother me a bit. In fact, it was getting more tempting by the minute. The last time I had been in this land, years before, I hadn’t met all that many people, but those I’d met had been pleasant. I guess between that and the stories of my grandfather, I’d built it up in my head as some sort of paradise. Yeah, well.
“I’m serious,” I said. “What makes you think—”
“Young man,” he said, “either you are a fool, or you think I am. I know a familiar when I see one.”
Oh. Well. So it was Loiosh after all. Who knew? But there were implications in there that hurt my head to think about. So I said, “All right. Do you know a family named Merss?”
“The door is that way, young man.”
And, once again, it was either walk out the door or use violence. I was sure I’d come up with some good remark to use on him tomorrow; meanwhile I pushed my way past the curtain and back into the street.
The next place was a shoemaker’s, and the smell of leather and oils overpowered even the stench of the town. I’ll spare you the details; the results were no better. These people just flat out didn’t like me. I felt myself starting to get angry, and sat on the feeling; right now that wouldn’t do any good. I needed to figure out what was going on.
“Three in a row, Boss. Convinced?”
“Yeah, only I’m not sure what I’m convinced of exactly.”
He wasn’t able to enlighten me, so I took us back to the inn, glancing at other shops as we walked, but not going in any. The shutters were open this time, and I concluded it must have to do with wind direction. Orbahn wasn’t there when I arrived—in fact, I nearly had the place to mys
elf—so I found a corner and a glass of strong red wine (actually, it looked more purple to me) and settled in to wait for him. The wine was decent.
After an hour or so I got a plate of lamb stew with leeks and garlic and a dollop of sour cream, and some thick-crusted bread. An hour after that Orbahn showed up. He didn’t waste any time; he looked around, saw me, and came right over.
“And how has your day been?” he asked me, signaling to the barmaid.
“Interesting,” I said. He ordered a drink, and I reminded him that I was buying lunch, so he got a bowl of the same stew I was having. “I’m not sure where to begin. Any idea why I might have been called an erdergbassor?”
His eyebrows climbed a little. “Hmmm. Who called you that?”
“The fellow that owns the witchcraft supply shop.”
“Oh. Him.” He shrugged. “I’ll talk to him.”
“No, no. Don’t bother. I’m just curious. He seemed to think, either because my familiar is a jhereg, or because I have a familiar, that—”
“It’s because your familiars are jhereg,” he said. “A lot of people here think that means you follow the dark way, that those who follow the light have birds or cats, occasionally ferrets. Not reptiles.”
“Oh. Odd.”
“It is odd. It’s a strictly local belief.”
“This is a peculiar town.”
He shrugged. “Just be careful here.”
“Eh? What do you mean?”
“I mean, don’t ask too many questions.”
“Why? I came here to find some things out.”
“I know. But, well, just be careful, all right? There are people here—”
“The Guild?”
He stopped in mid-sentence. “Ah,” he said. “You’ve found out about that?”
“I’ve found out it exists, and that it isn’t like any other guild I’ve ever heard of.”
He rubbed his chin. “I was born here, you know.”
“All right.”
“And I need to do business here.”
“I understand.”
“If you get on the wrong side of the Guild, don’t expect me to help you. Or even say hello when we pass on the street.”
“All right. That’s clear enough. But, until then, what can you tell me about it?”
He hesitated, then shrugged. “It’s old, it’s powerful.”
“And all-inclusive? That is, no merchant is going to survive without being in the Guild?”
He nodded.
I said, “And this is strictly local?”
“Other towns have Guilds; most of them do. But this one is, ah, unique.”
“How did it come about?”
“I don’t know; it’s been around as long as anyone can remember.”
“Who is in charge?”
“There’s a leader of the Guild. His name is Chayoor.”
“Of course it is. Where does he live?”
“Why?”
“If I’m going to avoid trouble with the Guild, that would seem like the place to start.”
He shook his head. “It’s up to you, but I wouldn’t. I think you ought to stay as far from it as you can.”
I sipped my wine, wondering just how far I could trust this guy. Loiosh sort of shifted on my shoulder; he was wondering too. I decided not very far, for now. I don’t trust people easily. I guess that surprises you.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll keep that in mind. I really just want to find my family, if there are any still here. Then I plan to move on. There isn’t a lot for me in this town.”
He nodded. “I had no luck with that,” he said. “Wish I could help you.”
“Thanks for trying.”
He nodded. “I think this town isn’t good for you. I don’t mean that as a threat,” he said quickly, I guess seeing some look on my face. “I have nothing against you. It’s just a warning. If you keep poking around, it’s going to get less comfortable. I’m sort of outside of things, I’m not involved as much as a lot of others because I travel so much. I don’t have to be as, well, protective of the interests of the town. But I’m still part of it, know what I mean?”
“In fact,” I said, “I haven’t the least idea. But I’m curious.”
“Mmm,” he said. He drank about half of his glass, showing no more expression than if it had been water, and looked thoughtful. “I guess what I’m saying is that I can warn you, but if you get into trouble, I can’t protect you.”
“Oh,” I said. “All right. Fair enough. I’ve only spoken to merchants, so far. I trust the common folk are not in the Guild. I’ll ask among them later.”
He shook his head. “You’ll do as you wish, of course. But I think it would be a mistake.”
“You think the Guild will notice?”
“Unless you’re pretty careful. And you do stand out here, you know.”
There was something amusing about the idea that I, a human, could blend into a crowd of Dragaerans without being seen, but here, among my own people, I stood out. Still, he was probably right.
“Why are you helping me?” I asked him. Sometimes a blunt question can shock someone into an honest answer.
He shrugged. “You seem an all-right fellow. If you saw a stranger going for a stroll in a direction where you knew there was a nasty bog, wouldn’t you mention it?”
Probably not. “I suppose so,” I said.
“Well, Loiosh? What do you think?”
“Boss?”
“Is he warning me away for my own good, or because he doesn’t want me learning something?”
“How should I know? Could be both.”
“Mmmm. Good point.”
“Can I buy you another drink?” I asked him.
“No, I’m fine. I need to be running anyway. I need to make sure the people preparing my next shipment aren’t lightening the burden by drinking it all.” He grinned and stood up.
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks for the information, and the advice. I owe you.” Exactly what I owed him was still to be determined.
He made a dismissing gesture and walked out of the inn.
I sat there for a while, watching my fingers draw circles in the moisture on the table. One thing just wouldn’t leave my head: When I had asked the tradesman if he knew anyone named Merss, he had thought I was threatening him. That was just too intriguing to pass up. Sitting and thinking about it would tell me nothing.
Presently I got up and went out.
3
M A G I S T R A T E: What first brought him to your attention?
L E F I T T: His remark about starting the healing process.
B O R A A N: When those in power wish to start the healing process, my lord, it means there are things they don’t want you to find out.
L E F I T T (hastily): Present company excepted, of course!
B O R A A N: Oh yes, to be sure.
L E F I T T: May we offer Your Lordship oishka and water?
—Miersen, Six Parts Water
Day Two, Act IV, Scene 5
The smell wasn’t as bad. There was a wind from the west and it was cold, too cold for mid-spring. I pulled my cloak around me and thought about going back to my room to get warmer stuff, but then I’d have to put up with remarks from Loiosh, and it didn’t seem worth it.
“Boss?”
“Yeah?”
“What now?”
“Now I find someone who’ll talk to me.”
“So, you don’t trust him?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I need to know more. And, dammit, I want to find them.”
“Why?”
“Loiosh—”
“No, Boss, really. When we came over the mountain, it was something to do since we were here anyway. Now it’s become this thing you have to do. Why?”
Part of his job is asking me the hard questions.
While I was trying to think up a good answer, my feet carried me over to the pier. If you’ve lost track, it was the middle of the day. The factory across the river was
belching gray smoke into the air. The wind was coming from the mountains (which I’m told is unusual) so at least the stench wasn’t bad. People—not many, mostly mothers with children in arms—were walking along the streets behind me. I didn’t worry about them, because Loiosh was—
“Someone’s coming, Boss. Woman, doesn’t seem threatening, and doesn’t seem to be walking up to you in particular.”
“Okay.”
I didn’t turn around, and presently there were footfalls behind and to my right. Soft-soled shoes that quietly “sawooshed,” probably darr skin or something like it. I saw her out of the corner of my eye, about ten feet away, and turned and nodded. She nodded back. She was around my age, maybe a bit older. Her eyes, which I noticed first, were an intriguing gray; her hair was black, I suspected dyed, and fell in long ringlets well past her shoulders. Her nose was straight, her form very pleasant, curvy; some time in my past I’d have been interested, and that part of me must not have been completely dead or I’d not have noticed. She wore long silvery ear-rings, and several rings on her fingers. Her dress was forest green, with a low, square neckline, and large obvious ties down the front; it didn’t quite reach her ankles and the red ruffle of her flaisl*was just visible below the hem. She wore slippers the same color as her eyes.
I turned back to studying the smoke from the factory. She seemed to be doing the same. After a few minutes she said, “Looking for a little fun?”
“No thanks,” I said. “I hate fun. Never wanted any. Even as a child, I’d run and hide if it looked like someone wanted me to have fun. I was pleased to grow up, because now I can go through the rest of my life without ever having fun.”
She laughed perfunctorily then gave a sort of sigh and continued watching the factory. I figured her work-day would likely begin when the place closed for the evening.
“Is the Guild in charge of your profession too?” I asked her.
You never know how tags will react to questions about their work. Sometimes they’ll talk about it the way you’d talk about the prospective harvest if the frost didn’t come early; sometimes they’d give a sort of haughty glance as if figuring you were getting excited by asking; sometimes they’d become angry as if any question about how they made their daily bread was more personal than the act itself—which I guess maybe it was.