by Steven Brust
The night passed, somehow. I didn’t feel noticeably better the next morning, but I suppose Aybrahmis must have thought I was because he let me eat some dry bread in addition to the soup. He looked at what the witches had done for the burns and nodded his approval; then he looked at my hand again while I studied the painting some more. Wherever I end up living, if I ever end up living somewhere (or, in fact, if I end up living), I don’t think I will ever have a painting of a waterfall there. And forget that art critic idea, too.
I was left alone at last.
“We need to plan our next move, Boss.”
“It’s planned. We’re going back to the inn. The Mouse.”
“After that?”
“I don’t know. I need to recover, I guess.”
“Boss, you have two choices. One is to take months to recover”—he didn’t add “if you ever do”—“and the other is to take that amulet off, which is liable to get you killed fast.”
“Maybe there’s another choice.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“We need to figure out the safest way for us to be gone from here before—”
“No. I have things left to do in this place.”
“Boss, tell me you’re just teasing your old buddy.”
“No.”
I shocked him into a silence that lasted the two or three minutes until they came to move me to the inn. They picked me up, mattress and all, and carried me down the stairs and out to the wagon. My box came with me.
This trip, also at night, wasn’t as bad as the other had been; I didn’t have to concentrate all of my energy on not screaming. I could look at the stars, and wonder and speculate and pick out imaginary patterns as does anyone else who has seen them.
We stopped just outside of town. I called over one of the guards and asked why. He shrugged and said, “Orders.”
I was about to tell Loiosh to find out what was up, but he flew off before I could formulate it; Rocza stood over me, wings spread, chest out, neck arched, opening and closing her mouth the way jhereg do when they want you to remember that they have really sharp fangs. The guards who had remained behind kept giving her nervous glances.
“It’s all right, Boss.”
“What? What’s going on?”
“We should have thought of it ourselves. They’re arranging for you to be brought in a back way.”
“Oh. Yeah, we should have thought of it ourselves.”
We started up again, and they finally had to take me off the mattress to make it up the back stairway of the Mouse, which had been built narrow for no possibly good reason, and if I ever meet whoever designed it I’ll break both his legs. It took years to get up those stairs, with one guy holding my legs and another my arms.
When I was finally deposited in a bed—different room, but the bed felt the same—I could only lie there and contemplate the sweet sounds of my moaning. I’ll let you in on a secret: I don’t sound all that good.
My entourage—the physicker and the witches—arrived within the hour and Aybrahmis made a clicking sound with his tongue as he looked me over. “With these people coming in to see me every day, Loiosh, it isn’t going to be much of a secret where I am.”
“Being secret wasn’t part of the plan, was it?”
“No, but it would have been nice.”
“It would have been nice if …”
He didn’t say it.
“I think,” said Aybrahmis, “that you will, for the most part, recover full use of your hand.”
“For the most part?”
“There should be no loss of strength or flexibility, I believe.”
“All right.”
“Are you cold?”
“Yes.”
He went out and came back about ten minutes later with another blanket. “I have arranged for meals to be brought up to you. I will need to have someone come in and help you with, ah, other things. The Count will pay for it.”
“Good of him,” I said dryly.
About half an hour after he and the witch had left (just one this time—the fat one with the long sideburns), someone struck the door. Loiosh, Rocza, and I all jumped, then remembered. “Come in,” I said.
The door opened and a light-haired, beardless face appeared, followed by a pair of shoulders that looked like they wouldn’t fit through the door. He was big. He wasn’t exceptionally tall, just very, very big. It looked like he could have crushed my head in one of his hands. Maybe he could have. He smiled—he was missing a few teeth and the others didn’t look so good—and said, “You are Lord Merss? I am Meehayi. His Lordship”—he made a quick gesture here that I didn’t catch—“sent me to assist you.”
I still had to concentrate on speaking so he could hear me. “I am Merss Vladimir,” I told him.
He looked me over and shook his head. “What happened?”
“I fell down the stairs,” I said.
He nodded, as if he’d seen the same result from a stair fall many times.
He seemed to be harmless and stupid. If he wasn’t here to kill me (there’s always that possibility, after all) then chances were I’d get him killed in less than a week. But he’d be useful to have around until then.
Am I getting cynical?
Heh. That fruit’s already picked.
“So, you tell me what you need done,” he said, “and old Meehayi will do it.”
“Old Meehayi” was maybe sixteen. I moaned to myself.
But he was careful when he picked me up. I guess he could be; he could have lifted three of me. I told him what I needed, and he did it without comment or, as far as I could tell, any reaction at all. A bit like the butler, I suppose, only from a different source and in a different way.
When he was done, he ran a thin rope out of my window and, as he explained, into his room next door, where it was attached to a bell. “Just ring if you need anything,” he said, grinning his ugly grin. I nodded and shut my eyes.
When he had gone I cried for a long time without making a sound. Loiosh and Rocza remained perfectly still.
I slept for a little, and Meehayi brought soup and bread from downstairs. This was better soup, oily and peppery with some substance, not to mention meat. Aybrahmis probably wouldn’t have approved, but it made me feel as if it just might be worth staying alive. I mean, after doing what I meant to do; before I dealt with that, nothing was going to take me down.
You hear about guys messing themselves up because they wanted revenge and didn’t care about anything else. Then you hear about guys who will tell you that revenge is “wrong,” whatever that means. Well, they can all go “plunk” at the bottom of Deathgate for all of me. I had come into town to learn what I could about my mother’s family, and now they were dead, and if I didn’t do anything about it then the bastards who did it would just go on doing things that way because it worked so well. And as for getting messed up: well, you do things and there are consequences; I ought to know. I can live with consequences. Besides, how much more messed up could I get?
But that’s all justification, and I knew it even as I lay there, more dead than alive, and told it to myself. The real issue was just that the idea of letting them get away with it was unthinkable. I didn’t have any more justification than that, and I didn’t need any.
I put my mind to planning how I was going to pull it off. If I couldn’t do anything else, at least I could lie there and think. You don’t come up with a plan by thinking, “What’s the best way to do this?” You start with what you know, assembling it in your head (I prefer to talk it over with Loiosh, actually, because I formulate my thoughts better when I say them), and make special note of oddities—things that stick out as not fitting in some way. You get as clear a picture of the situation as you can, and then—usually—openings start presenting themselves. At least, that was how I approached it when I made my living by making others stop living, and I couldn’t see a good reason to change it.
Once, many years ago, I had tal
ked about this with a colleague. It was the only time I had ever discussed the methods of assassination with anyone, including Cawti, because, well, there are things you just don’t talk about. But this guy and I were both drunk that night, and talked about how we approached it, and it turned out he did things the same way I did. He called it “the process of elimination.” I wish I could claim credit for that line. I thought it was funny.
He eventually got to thinking he was too tough to have to pay off his gambling debts and he got shined. I can’t remember his name.
On this occasion, I didn’t want to go through it with Loiosh yet, so I just ran things over in my head, organizing what I knew and noting things I still needed to learn. The more I thought about it, the more I realized my picture wasn’t complete. To be sure, I had the broad outlines; I now knew who was behind the thing, and who had done what and why. But the holes in the picture could be troublesome when I got around to doing something about it.
“Boss, is this when you finally get around to telling me what’s been going on?”
“It’s all been a big misunderstanding.”
“Why do I get the feeling you aren’t kidding about that?”
“I’m not.”
“Uh, okay, Boss. You talk, I’ll listen.”
I shook my head and stared at the ceiling, feeling suddenly empty: empty of ambition, empty of anger, empty of energy. Does this always happen when you’re seriously hurt, you feel full of desire to make plans one minute, the next minute you just want to soak in self-pity, and the minute after that you don’t feel anything? If this pattern was going to continue, it would get very old. I didn’t have time for it. I needed to do things.
But not right now.
I slept some, I think.
Later, Meehayi came in and fed me soup.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Soup,” he said.
“Hardly. There’s nothing in it.”
“The physicker had them make this specially for you.”
I’d have knocked the bowl into his face if I could have moved.
“Eat it, Boss. Please.”
I ate it; every tasteless, disagreeable spoonful of it. Then I shook some more, though I can’t say why; I wasn’t cold. I slept some, and the next time Meehayi brought soup I was able to feed myself. If I told you how much of a sense of triumph that brought me you’d think I was an idiot, or else just pitiful.
As I was recovering from the exertion, Loiosh said, “How much of this was the assassin, Boss?”
“What do you mean?”
“How much of, of what happened to you was his doing?”
“Oh. You think the invisible hand of the assassin was behind it? No chance. For one thing, it started before he got here. For another, the last thing he wanted was for me to be taken. It put me out of his reach. In fact, it…”
I let that thought trail off, and Loiosh didn’t pick it up. Yeah, it might have saved my life. Eventually I’d decide if it was a good trade-off. Meanwhile, he was one problem solved, one complication gone. Not that I was in danger of running out of those anytime soon.
“There are things I need to know, Loiosh, and I can’t move, so you’re going to have to find out for me.”
“Sure, Boss. Just give me the list of questions and the people to ask.”
“Now isn’t the time to be funny.”
“Now isn’t the time for me to be anywhere but here.”
“There are things I need to know.”
“How bad do you need to know them if you’re dead?”
That conversation consumed a considerable amount of time, and became rather passionate. In the end, however, he agreed to do what I wanted, because the alternative would have been to say that Rocza was incompetent. Sometimes you have to fight dirty.
“Okay,” he said grudgingly. “What do you need to know?”
“Do you think you could follow Orbahn without him seeing you?”
“Don’t make me laugh. The question is, can I see Orbahn without finding out how far into him I can sink my fangs.”
“Um. Well, can you?”
“Maybe. What do you need to know?”
“I need him followed.”
“Any guess where I can find him?”
“Try the Hat.”
“Okay. Now? Or is there more?”
“There will be more eventually.”
“Of that, Boss, I have no doubt at all.”
“But this will do for now.”
“Just one thing before I go flying off on this errand.”
“What?”
“How do I get out of here?”
“Huh? Through the … oh.” I scowled and rang the bell for Meehayi to open the window. It was about time for me to have more of the wonderful soup anyway.
14
M A G I S T R A T E This is what comes of everyone acting in his own self-interest.
B O R A A N IN WHOSE INTEREST OUGHT EVERYONE TO ACT, MY LORD?
M A G I S T R A T E Why, mine, of course.
L E F I T T Some people are so self-centered.
—Miersen, Six Parts Water
Day Two, Act IV, Scene 5
Meehayi seemed unduly impressed that I was able to feed myself again, given that I’d already done so once. I should have felt insulted, but for whatever reason I wasn’t. He did things for me and I hated feeling grateful to him and to the Count. In an effort to direct his and my attention away from what was going on (I swear to you, that’s all I was doing) I said, “Are you from a large family?”
“Large enough,” he said. “Three sisters, four brothers. Who lived, I mean,” he added matter-of-factly.
“Farm?”
He nodded. “For the Count, now.”
I almost let that go, but I was desperate to talk about something, anything. “Now?” I said.
“Well, all my life.”
“Who was it before that?”
“The old Baron, of course.” He dropped his voice. “He was an evil man. He used to bathe in the blood of young virgins.” He nodded seriously.
“Yes, well,” I said. “That certainly qualifies as evil, though I’m having some trouble imagining he’d have found it pleasant.”
That seemed to puzzle him and he fell silent.
“What became of him?” I asked.
“There was a great battle between the Count and the Baron, and in the end the Count dragged him down to Hell.”
“Where is Hell, exactly? I’ve often wondered.”
He looked at me to see if I were mocking him, which I was, but I felt bad about it so I kept my face straight and looked sincere.
“Under the ground,” he finally said.
“It must have been some battle.”
He nodded eagerly, as if he’d been there. “The Baron summoned demons and devils, and all the witches of light gathered together to banish them.”
I made a noncommittal sound, wondering if there were any shades of truth anywhere in it. “This must have been a long time ago.”
“Oh, yes. It was in my great-great-grandfather’s time.”
Of course it was.
“I see. That must have been about the time the paper mill was opening.”
He nodded. “I think so. It was the Count who opened the mill, you know. My brother and my uncle work there.”
“The old Count. Back then. Not the same man.”
“Oh, no! He’d be over a hundred years old.”
I nodded. “His grandson, then?”
He frowned. “I think so.” I guess he wasn’t used to keeping track of progressions of his overlords.
“So then, there was a great battle of good magic and evil magic and the brave Count banished the foul Baron and took over his holdings and opened a paper mill and all was well.”
“Urn, I guess so.”
By this time I was back on the bed, but my mind was working so hard I hardly noticed my body. “Who would know the details about this?”
“Details, Lord Merss?”
“Yes. Your story interests me. I’d like to learn more. The names of everyone involved on both sides, and how the battle was fought, all of it. Perhaps I’ll write a history.”
He looked awestruck. “A history? You’ll really write a history?”
“I might. But to do that, I need to know someone who knows all about it. Who would that be?”
“Father Noij.”
“Right. Of course. Father Noij. Would you be good enough to ask Father Noij to come and visit me when he gets the chance?”
“All right, I will!” he said. I think he was excited to be part of someone writing a history.
“Don’t tell him what it’s about. I’d rather introduce the subject myself.”
He nodded enthusiastically and dashed off, leaving me to my contemplations. I didn’t have time for a lot of them before he returned, somewhat breathless and beaming. “He said he’ll stop by this evening.”
“Good,” I said, and realized that I was now, without effort, speaking in an almost normal tone of voice. I was getting better. Perhaps in a year or two I’d even be able to walk.
I’m going to stop mentioning being hit with waves of frustration, or misery, or anger. You can just figure that they happened, one after the other, quicker or longer, weaker or stronger, and plug them in where you want to. They don’t matter. When you have to do something, it doesn’t matter how you feel when doing it, it matters that you do it.