by Steven Brust
She just said, “The Guild runs everything.”
“I was getting that impression. I’m Vlad.”
She looked at me, then looked back across the river. “Well met, Vlad. I’m Tereza. What in the name of the Three Sisters would bring you to this crappy little town?”
There were lines in the corners of her eyes and on her forehead that she hadn’t quite managed to conceal with her makeup, but I guess the makeup wasn’t expected to function in full light. The lines made her more attractive.
“I came for the aroma.”
A smile flickered quickly.
“In fact,” I went on, “I’ve been standing here asking myself the same question. Mostly, I’m passing through on the way to somewhere else. Or I guess from somewhere else. But I understand I have kin somewhere around here, and I’d like to find them.”
“Oh. Who?”
“The name is Merss.”
She turned her head and gave me a long, measuring look. I waited.
“I can’t help you,” she said at last.
I nodded. “I’m beginning to suspect they aren’t here at all,” I said, because a good lie can loosen tongues better than a bad truth.
“I know who would be will—that is, able to tell you many things about this town,” she said.
“Oh? Well, that’s the most hopeful thing I’ve heard today.”
She hesitated, then said, “It’ll cost you.”
I looked at her.
She sighed. “Oh, all right. There’s a public house called the Cellar Mouse.”
“Yes, I saw it.”
“In back of it are stables. Most nights, there will be a man there named Zollie. He’s the coachman for Count Saekeresh. He knows everyone and everything, and he’s the Lord’s coachman so no one can touch him; or at least so he thinks. Get him liquored up a bit and he’ll tell you anything.”
I dug an imperial out, walked over and put it into her palm. She did that thing people do when judging the weight of a coin, and said, “Is it gold?”
“Pure. Don’t spend it all in one place.”
She laughed. “I owe you, Vlad. Fenario, here I come!” She grinned and kissed my cheek. She was nearly as tall as I was. She was much more attractive when she was smiling. I watched as she walked away, a nice spring in her step.
After a bit, I took myself over to the Cellar Mouse, which was a lot like the Pointy Hat (as I’d started calling the other place in my head) except the room was longer and the ceiling a bit higher. The tables were all small and round. After the usual reserved but not-unfriendly nods, I took a glass of wine to a small table and set in to nursing it until the evening.
The place started filling up quickly as dark came, mostly with men who had both the look and the smell of the factory across the river. There were also a few girls, all of whom wore gowns with obvious ties down the front and ankles uncovered. Sometimes one would leave with a workman, heading into the back. A couple of them looked at me, but none came over.
I studied the people, for lack of anything else to do, and worked on memorizing the faces for no reason except that it’s good practice. Eventually, I made my way out the door and around back. The stable was directly to the rear about fifty feet, and, from what I could see, connected to a sort of paddock. Outside of it was a tall coach, and even in the dim light that leaked out of the inn it seemed to glisten. There was a marking of some sort on the door, and no horses were attached. Where there was a coach, there would be a coachman. And where there’s a coachman, there are stories. And where there are stories, there are answers to questions, and maybe even the right ones.
I went in.
It smelled of fresh hay, old hay, wet hay, moldy hay, and manure. It was a big improvement. There were ten stalls, four of which were occupied by horses of various colors and sizes, the fifth by a skinny fellow wearing black, with a high-domed forehead over thick brows, making him look, well, a bit ridiculous. His hands were folded over his stomach, and there were several odd white scars crisscrossing the backs of them. He sat on a low stool, and his eyes were closed, but opened as I came closer; I saw no trace of sleep in them, nor sign of drunkenness—the latter being unusual, if you believe all you’ve heard about coachmen.
“If you’ve come for a ride to the manor,” he said in a clear voice, somewhat higher pitched than you’d guess from looking at him, “you’re too late. If you’ve come for a story, you’re too early. If you’ve come to buy me a drink, your timing could not be improved.”
“I have questions and money,” I said.
“Make the money liquid, and I’ll answer the questions.”
“Good enough. What do you wish?”
“Wine. White wine. And the better it is, the better your answers will be.”
“I’ll be back directly.”
He nodded and closed his eyes.
He opened them a few minutes later when I returned with his wine as well as something red for myself. He sniffed his, drank it, nodded, and said, “Grab a stool.” There were a few low three-legged stools like a cobbler uses; I took one and sat on it opposite him. The horses shifted around, and one of them eyed me suspiciously as I walked in front of him. Or her. Or it. Or maybe it was looking at Loiosh and Rocza.
I sat down and said, “My name is Vlad.”
He nodded. “They just call me Zollie, Kahchish, or Chish.” He took some more wine. “Good choice. All right, Vlad. You had questions?”
“Many, many, many.”
His smile was friendly. I believed it, provisionally. So, where to start?
“Do you know a family called Merss?”
“Sure,” he said. “About six miles north, the little road past the walnut trees. Big white house that looks like it’s been added to a lot. Unless you mean the cousins; they moved away some years ago. I don’t know where, but probably to Fenario. The city, I mean.”
“Oh,” I said. “Thanks.”
“It’s about a half-hour ride.”
“I don’t ride.”
He looked genuinely startled. “You’ve never been on a horse?”
“I have been; that’s why I don’t ride.”
“Mmmm. Very well. What else?”
“Why wouldn’t anyone else answer my question about them?”
“They’re scared of the Guild.”
“Yeah,” I said. “The Guild. That would be my next question.”
“It’s everyone’s question. Mine too. No one quite knows how it came to be what it is.”
“You must know some of the history.”
He finished his wine and held the mug out to me. “Some,” he said.
“Keep it,” I told him. “I’ll be back with a jug.”
“I’ll be here,” he said.
The place had filled up a bit, so it took me about ten minutes to get back. I handed him the jug and settled down again. “All right,” I said. “The Guild.”
“Yes. The Guild.” He studied me for a bit. “Why the interest?”
“I kept running into them while I was trying to learn about the Merss family.”
He studied me more carefully. “They’re kin, aren’t they?”
“I always thought I took after my father.”
“The way your nostrils flare. Most of them have that. Is that what brings you to Burz?”
“Yes and no,” I said.
He waited for me to continue, and when I didn’t he just shrugged.
“Fenario is old kingdom, Vlad. Very old. Two thousand years, the same people, in the same land.”
I didn’t comment on how short two thousand years would seem to Morrolan or Aliera, much less to Sethra; I just nodded.
He continued, “The borders have shifted a bit over the years, and other things have changed.” I nodded, because he seemed to expect it. He continued. “For the last few hundreds of years, the King hasn’t been too concerned with the outlying provinces. He’s done what he’s had to to make sure the borders are secure, and other than that, pretty much left it up to
the local Count to do as he would.”
“Except for his taxes, I suppose.”
“Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”
“Mmm.”
He shrugged. “Believe me, or not. As often as not, the King doesn’t seem to care if the taxes are collected. At least, this far west. I suppose if he demands too much, he’ll only encourage smuggling.”
“All right,” I said.
“So when things happened, we were on our own.”
“What things?”
“The story is that the Count, the old Count, my Lord’s grandfather, went off his head. Started thinking all the witches were trying to kill him or something.”
“Were they?”
“Eventually.”
“Hmmm.”
“I don’t know the whole story, of course. No one does. But somehow, the local witches split themselves into those who wanted to hide from the Count until his madness passed, and those who wanted to do something.”
“Something like … ?”
“I don’t know. Kill him? Cure him? What’s the difference?”
“You remind me of some people I know.”
He poured more wine into his mug. “So there was a long time—ten years? twenty? thirty?—when all the Count was doing was fighting witches. There are songs that list the diseases he contracted and was cured of. They probably aren’t true either, but I imagine he was pretty busy. Still, things had to be managed, so it ended up with the Merchants’ Guild more or less running things.”
“Well, and later Counts? Didn’t they have anything to say about that?”
“As I understand it, the old Count’s son settled things for good and all.”
“How did he do that?”
“Made a deal. You don’t hurt me, I won’t hurt you. Usually the Count is happy to get his silver and sit at home complaining about poachers.”
“Strange.”
“It’s a strange town.”
“Yes, you can smell that much.”
He nodded. “The peasants don’t like the stench from the factory, and they don’t like all of their sons leaving the land to work indoors, but the factory is how the Count gets his silver, so the merchants make sure nothing interferes with it. They don’t want the Count complaining to Fenario, you see, because there just might someday be a King who actually cares what’s going on.”
“A strange town,” I repeated. “What’s the difference between those witches who fought the Count and those who didn’t?”
“Eh?”
“I mean, how has that changed?”
“Oh. I’ve no idea. No one except witches ever talk about it, and I’ve never studied the Art. Some say that those who were loyal to the Count only have birds and mice as familiars. I don’t know if that’s true.”
“Is any of what you’ve told me true?”
He considered that. “I’m telling you a story. If you want history, go, ah, elsewhere. I don’t know if it’s true. We pass these things on, we coachmen.”
“So, none of what you’re telling me might actually have happened?”
“I’m sure some of it is related to what happened, somehow.”
I noticed I hadn’t had any wine in a while so I drained about half of my mug while I thought things over.
“Then I take it,” I said slowly, “that the Merss family is associated with the, ah, the dark forces of the Art.”
He nodded.
“Hmmm. And yet, they’re still around.”
“A few. They’re stubborn.”
I smiled. That pleased me.
“And,” he added, “they mostly keep to themselves, and don’t offend anyone.”
“Just like me,” I said dryly.
He either missed the irony, or chose to ignore it. “So then, Vlad, have I answered all of your questions?”
I laughed. “Sure. And generated a hundred more.”
“That’s how it usually works.”
“The Count, how is he called?”
“My lord will do.”
“No, no. His name.”
“Oh. Veodric. His family name is Saekeresh.”
“Thank you. Tell me, Zollie, what brings you here?”
“I was born here,” he said.
“No, I mean, why are you at the inn, instead of at the manor with your Good Count Saekeresh Veodric?”
He laughed. “Good Count Veodric, aside from being a bad-tempered spoiled child who can speak of nothing but his aches and pains, is three and eighty years old,” he said. “Once a year he leaves the manor to attend the Planting Festival, and once a year he leaves to judge at the horse show. This isn’t either of those days, and the company here is better.”
I looked around. “The horses?” He smiled and winked at me. “Oh,” I said. “Expecting someone?”
“Sooner or later,” he said.
“Then I’ll leave you with the wine and my thanks.”
“It has been a pleasure, Merss Vlad. I trust I’ll see you again.”
“I hope so,” I told him. “I’ll have more questions after I’ve thought things over.”
“And more wine, I trust.”
“And more wine.”
It had gotten late while we spoke, and there seemed to be little sound coming from the inn. I made my way back across the small village, Loiosh and Rocza keeping close watch, because I was suddenly nervous. Nevertheless, nothing happened; I made it back and was let in to the Pointy Hat by the host, Inchay, who gave me a sour look (the place was empty; I guess he’d been about to retire).
“Well, that was useful, eh, Boss?”
“What are you being sarcastic about now? It was useful.”
“How? He said everything he told you might be made up!”
“True or not, there are many who believe it.”
“Oh, well, everything’s solved then.”
“He also said there’s truth behind it, somewhere.”
“Good luck finding it.”
“Oh, shut up. I’m tired.”
Some pleasures never get old, and taking off your boots at the end of a long day is one of those. I took off my cloak and outer layer of clothing, remembered to close the shutters, and stretched out on the bed. I was pleased that I hadn’t had cause to regret leaving my sword here, and I decided not to do that ever again.
“Well, Boss, I hope it’s progress. I’d like to be done and out of here.”
“This town makes you nervous, does it?”
“What, it doesn’t make you nervous?”
“Yeah, I guess it does at that. Good night.”
*A flaisl, it turns out, is a warm, abstract-pattern fabric used by prairie prostitutes for colorful yet comfortable petticoats during the cold winters. Thanks to K. Christie for finding that out for me.—SB
4
L E F I T T: But the fact is, that is the body of Lord Chartis!
M A G I S T R A T E: The Gods! It is impossible!
B O R A A N (to Lefitt): My love, you make the classic error. That is not a fact, that is a conclusion drawn from facts.
L E F I T T: You mean, it is not Chartis?
B O R A A N : Oh, no. It is certainly Chartis. I was merely objecting to your choice of words.
—Miersen, Six Parts Water
Day Two, Act IV, Scene 3
I remember thinking, the night before, how nice it was to sleep in an actual bed. It was still nice.
I slept late, and felt rested when I got up and stumbled down the hall to splash water on my face and so on. I returned to the room, dressed, and took a bit of extra care looking over my weapons as I strapped them on and secured them. Then I went down to eat bread and cheese and drink coffee. A lot of bread and a lot of cheese—I was going to be walking again today. Not so much coffee; foul, nasty, bitter stuff made bearable only by heavy cream and glops of honey.
It was still morning when I set out. I stood outside of the Pointy Hat (I still hadn’t heard what the locals called it) and sent Loiosh scouting to find a road south. It took him abo
ut five minutes. I followed his directions around a three-story red brick building that I guessed to be some sort of merchants’ exchange, and started walking, pacing myself. Loiosh rejoined me, on my right shoulder this time, and had a conversation with Rocza that was none of my business.
The morning was fine and clear; the sky a bright, clear blue dotted with puffy bits of white. That was going to take some time to get used to. It came to me that over the last couple of days I had been half-consciously avoiding looking up. If you’ve never been in a place where all of a sudden the sky looks entirely different from what you’re used to you probably won’t understand, but it messes with your head. It makes you think of those stories about people who step through holes in a cave wall and find themselves in Upside Down Land or Walk Backward Land or Everything Too Big Land.
Or Mud Land. I was glad there hadn’t been a lot of rain lately; I hate walking through mud.
A wagon, pulled by a young and spry-looking horse—at least, it seemed young and spry to me—passed me going the other way. The peasant gave me a hesitant half nod, which I returned. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat. Lots of the people I’d seen in town had worn hats. The Furnace again, I imagine. Maybe I should get myself a hat. The Furnace was bright on my right side.
“Should I get a hat, Loiosh?”
“Yeah, Boss. It’ll give me something to play with when I’m bored.”
Okay, skip the hat.
There was a small hut, probably a farmhouse, set back a long ways from the road. Why build so small when there is so much room? Were there laws about it? If so, why?
The Furnace had climbed up noticeably higher in the sky, and I was starting to sweat a little. I stopped, opened a water bottle, and drank, then poured some into my palm for Loiosh and Rocza. Rocza still couldn’t drink out of my palm without tickling me with her tongue.
I passed a few clumps of trees—thin, with the branches far over my head and forming a high awning—but other than that, there were just the gently rolling farmlands, like an ocean in all directions, with stuff growing in neat rows. Sometimes there would be something that was almost a hill, and there the rows would be along the hill, rather than up and down it, which looked to me as if someone went to a lot of extra work, but no doubt there were reasons having to do with the sort of witchcraft all peasants knew in this land.