Dzur

by Steven Brust

  “Men or women?”

  He frowned. “Men, m’lord.”

  “All right.”

  “And they started, well, just being around more. It made all of my friends nervous, so I started asking questions.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “It seems there was someone else in charge. Someone from the City.”

  I nodded. “The City” was how people in South Adrilankha re­ferred to the part of Adrilankha north of the river. Or, well, west of the river.

  “I’ve heard,” he said, “that there is some group called the Strangers Group that gets the money.”

  “Named for Stranger’s Road, or some other reason?”

  “Stranger’s Road. They work out of a private house there.”

  “Whose house?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I gave him the narrowed-eyed quick glance, and he said, “I really don’t. It used to belong to an old lady named Coletti, but she died last year, and I don’t know who bought it.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  It’s funny how my mind works: it at once jumped to who I could get to bribe the appropriate clerk to check ownership rec­ords, forgetting that, well, I didn’t have any “who”s anymore. Af­ter being gone for years, I was only back for one day and I was thinking like a Jhereg again.

  This could be good or bad.

  All right, now I knew the place. What next? Check it out? Sure, why not? What could possibly happen?

  “You’re starting to second-guess yourself, Boss. Careful.”

  “Yeah. I’m not used to this sort of thing anymore. Crime requires constant practice.”

  “Write that down to pass on to your successors. In the meantime—”

  “Yeah.” Point taken.

  “What about collections?”

  “My lord?”

  “Do runners go to them, or do they send a bagman?”

  “Oh. Runners go to the house. That’s what I do.”

  “Are runners going there every day, or just once a week?”

  “Every day, m’lord.”

  I nodded and considered a bit more. They certainly weren’t making a secret of what they were up to. Did they want someone coming after them, or was it just that they felt so secure that they didn’t care? Or were they doing it in order to be seen to be doing it?

  That way lieth the headache.

  “Okay,” I said. “Oh. About those boots ....”

  “Yes, m’lord. Warm in the cold, but let the air in. Soft, com­fortable above all, good support. I can put in enchantments to ward against blisters as well. That will help when you break them in.”

  I nodded.

  “Day after tomorrow, my lord.”

  I touched the hilt of Lady Teldra and gave him as warm a smile as I could manage, which probably wasn’t very. Hey, I get credit for trying, don’t I?

  Jakoub held the curtain aside for me. Loiosh flew out and scanned the area quickly, let me know it was safe, then returned to my shoulder as I stepped outside. The curtain closed behind me, taking away the smells of leather and oils and returning the smells of South Adrilankha, about which the less said the better.

  The walk to Stranger’s Road was short. I stopped in front of a dirty gray pawnshop forty or fifty yards shy of the place, and looked it over. The house was a three-story old red stonework thing, with a wraparound wooden porch that seemed to have been an after-thought. It had a pair of glass windows on each of the first two floors, and a single one on the top story.

  I leaned against the pawnshop and practiced patience. It was evening, just shy of darkness. Over at Six Corners, things would be just starting to get busy with the usual nighttime activity; here there were few pedestrians, just an old man walking a short, ugly dog and a few children kneeling on the street intent on some game or another.

  “Loiosh?”

  “We’re on our way.”

  They left my shoulders and flew up, making a spiral above the house, then slowly circling around it, lower, then lower again, then returned.

  “No activity, Boss. And all the windows are curtained.” He sounded mildly offended.

  “I’ll speak to them about that.”

  The “no activity” part changed abruptly. The door opened, and someone in Jhereg gray—someone Dragaeran and female—stepped onto the porch. She stood there, with something like a rod in her right hand, and looked about the street. I pulled myself in close to the pawnshop, so I could no longer see the house, which meant she couldn’t see me. Loiosh peeked his head out from around the corner.

  “What’s she doing, Loiosh?”

  “Just looking around. Oh, and now she’s making gestures with that stick.”

  “What sort of gestures?”

  “Small ones. She makes a little circle, changes direction a bit, then—she’s moving around the side of the porch now. She’s out of sight.”

  “Well, I think we’ve established two things, at any rate. The Left Hand is, indeed, controlling this area, and they can tell when I’m nearby. Unless you want to chalk it up to coincidence that she came out right now.”

  “How could they tell, Boss? They shouldn’t be able—”

  “Lady Teldra,” I said.

  “Oh.”

  Even I am aware whenever a Morganti weapon is nearby, un­less it is in a sheath that dampens the psychic effect of the thing. With a weapon as powerful as Lady Teldra, yeah, any skilled sor­cerer would be sensitive enough to at least be aware that there was something in the area.

  “You know, Boss, this is going to mess with your general sneakiness.”

  “Yep. I’ll have to see about an improved scabbard for her, or something.”

  “Another one just came out. Time to make an exit?”

  “Or an entrance.”

  “Boss?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s tempting, but not yet. I need to know more.”

  “Good. I was going to start worshiping Crow.”

  “Crow?”

  “His dominion is things that fall?”

  “Where did you pick up that bit of information?”

  “A few minutes ago, passing by a shrine. I heard some people talking.”

  “I never knew?”

  “You’re pretty distracted.”

  “I prefer to call it ‘concentrating.’”

  “Whatever you say, Boss.”

  “Okay, let’s move.”

  We didn’t speak during the long walk across the river. I suppose the visit had been productive; I’d at least confirmed that the Left Hand was, indeed, running things. And I’d ordered boots and a new scabbard for my rapier.

  I walked along the right-hand side of the Chain Bridge while the water swirled under me. I glanced upriver, speculating on who and what might live there; all of those people being born, living, and dying along its banks. Maybe, if I lived through this, that’s where I’d go next; just follow the river and see where it brought me. The East Bank, of course.

  When the two miles or so of the bridge were behind me, I found a cabriolet and had myself brought north to a district that overlooked the docks. A few miles away, on the other side of the river, were the slaughterhouses; on this side were houses: public, private, and ware, as well as the stalls of the poorer craftsmen and the shops of the more prosperous ones.

  It was becoming dark as I entered a house whose sign de­picted a ship’s lantern hanging from a mast. There would, I sus­pected, be a lot of Orca in here. There were a lot of Orca in all the taverns in this part of Adrilankha, so it wasn’t a terribly daring guess.

  It was a long, narrow room. I spotted a door on the far end that would, no doubt, lead to smaller rooms. Near the door was a small raised area for musicians. And standing near it was a pale-looking Dragaeran in blue and white, holding some sort of instru­ment with lots of strings and an oddly curved body.

  Years before I had made a deal with the Minstrels’ Guild; expensive, but one of the smarter things I’d done. You don’t need to hear the whole conversation. I
showed him a ring I carry, asked him a couple of questions, got a couple of answers, and slipped him some coins. Then it was out the door quickly, before some of those looks I was getting from the assembled Orca turned themselves into action which would result in more attention than I cared for.

  I followed the musician’s directions, which took me west a bit less than a mile. I want to say something like, “No one tried to kill me,” just to let you know that the whole being killed thing was never far from my mind; but it’ll be played out pretty fast, so if I don’t say anything about it, you can assume I didn’t get killed.

  This house, marked by a newly painted sign showing a sleeping dog, was a bit larger than the last and more nearly square. The stage was off to the left, and the fellow I was looking for was stand­ing next to it, holding a wide, curved drum.

  “Aibynn,” I said after the twenty steps or so between the doorway and the stage.

  He blinked a couple of times, as if the word were in some for­eign language, then gave me a smile. “Hey, Vlad,” he said. “I got a new drum.”

  “Yeah,” I told him. “That’s why I came back.”

  “Oh? You’ve been away?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  Aibynn was thin even for the thin Dragaerans, and as tall as Morrolan. He was not native to the Empire; I’d met him on an island while involved in a complicated business involving a god, a king, an empress, political conspiracies, and other sundry enter­tainments. Of all the Dragaerans I’d ever met, he was the one I understood the least, but also one of the few I was certain had no interest in using me for his purposes.

  We found a table and sat down. A barmaid gave him something clear, batted her eyelashes at him, and then remembered to ask if I wanted anything. I didn’t.

  Aibynn said, “You sticking around for the show? I’m playing with this guy—”

  “Probably not,” I said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t actually like music.”

  “Yeah, neither do I,” said Aibynn.

  “No, I mean it,” I said.

  He nodded. “Yeah, me too.”

  Aibynn was a musician. I wasn’t.

  I said, “It’s not like I’m tone-deaf or anything. And, I mean, there are some things I like. Simple tunes, that you can hum, with words that are kind of clever. But most things that people call real music—”

  “Yeah,” said Aibynn. “Sometimes I want to be just done with the whole thing.” As he spoke, his fingers were drumming on the tabletop. I don’t mean tapping, like I might do if I were bored, I mean drumming—making complex rhythms, and doing rolls, and frills. He seemed entirely unaware of what his fingers were doing. But then, Aibynn usually seemed entirely unaware of most of what was going on.

  “I don’t think he’s going to get it, Boss,” said my familiar.

  “I think you’re right, Loiosh.”

  “Anyway,” I said, “I actually came because there are some questions I wanted to ask you.”

  “Oh.” He said it as if it had never before occurred to him that he might know the answer to any conceivable question. “All right.”

  “You used to go to South Adrilankha fairly often. Do you still?”

  His eyes widened slightly, but from him that didn’t mean much. “Yes, I do. The Easterners have an instrument called—”

  “Is this guy bothering you?”

  We both glanced up. A particularly ugly specimen of Orca­hood was speaking to Aibynn. Funny how differently people react to you when you aren’t dressed as a Jhereg.

  Aibynn frowned at the fellow, as if he had to translate. I reached for my rapier, but my hand came in contact with the hilt of Lady Teldra instead. I leaned back in my chair, and waited for Aibynn to answer.

  He said, “No, no. We’re friends.”

  The Orca gave him an odd look, started to say something, then shrugged and shuffled off. Five years ago, there would have been blood on the floor. Ten years ago, there would have been a body. I guess I’d changed.

  I returned my attention to Aibynn.

  “Do you know the area called Six Corners?”

  He nodded. “I used to play at a place there called, uh, I don’t know what it’s called. But, yeah.”

  “Good. That was going to be my next question.”

  “What was?”

  “Never mind. Tell me about the place.”

  “Well, the acoustics are really nice because—”

  “No, no. Uh ...”

  Eventually I managed to get the information I wanted, and even to communicate what I wanted him to do. He shrugged and agreed because he had no reason not to. I got out of the place without any untoward incidents, and slipped around behind it to give myself time to figure out my next move.

  “Think that’s going to do any good, Boss?”

  “Any reason not to have it set up, just in case?”

  “Well, no, I guess not. Rocza is hungry.”

  “Already?”

  “Boss, it’s been hours.”

  “But it was Valabar’s. Doesn’t that count extra?”

  “I’m sure it does in some ways—they’ve found you, Boss?”

  “Huh?”

  “Boss, someone just found you.”

  “How ... what?”

  “I don’t know. I felt something. You’re being looked at.”

  “Through you?”

  “I don’t know?”

  As we were talking, I was moving—walking as quickly as I could without appearing to rush. I passed a few tradesmen and Teckla, none of whom paid any attention to me. I turned right onto a street whose name I didn’t know.

  I carried a charm that prevented anyone from finding me by sorcery. I was also protected against witchcraft, just on the off-chance the Jhereg would use it. There are other arcane disciplines, to be sure, but could they be used to track me? I wished I knew more.

  Sethra Lavode had once located Loiosh. That was one possi­bility. But there weren’t many Sethra Lavodes in the world. Could they have tracked Lady Teldra, even inside her sheath? If I were given to muttering, I’d have muttered.

  Loiosh and Rocza took off from my shoulders, to keep an eye on things from above, and so that, if it was Loiosh who had been located, I wouldn’t be in his immediate proximity. I guess it was having the Bitch Patrol on my mind, but I kept seeing visions of some sorceress showing up in front of me and blasting me to pieces before I could move.

  Okay, I had three choices. I could find an alley where they had to come at me from one direction, and wait. I could gamble that I could remove the amulet and complete a teleport before they showed up. Or I could keep moving until I thought of something else.

  I went for option three.

  I took another street to the left, and wished I still had Spellbreaker.

  Well, that was silly. I did still have Spellbreaker.

  I reached past my rapier, gripped Lady Teldra, and drew her. Then I stared at her.

  Like me, she had changed. 3. Shamy

  I slipped Loiosh and Rocza the remains of the bread (neither expressed any interest in the garlic) as Mihi brought the shamy. I’ve never come across shamy anywhere but Valabar’s, and I have no clue how it is made. It is mostly ice, crushed or chopped very fine, flavored, and with, well, with something else in there so it holds together. Maybe a cream of some kind, maybe egg. The flavor is very subtle, but reminds me of certain wines that Morrolan favors—wines that tingle on your tongue. Shamy has no such tingle, but it does have just a bit of the flavor.

  “Who was that fellow, Vlad?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “That fellow who came in before and sat with us.”

  “Oh. That was Mario.”

  “I got his name, but who is he?”

  “Mario Greymist. You never heard of him?”

  He shook his head.

  “He, uh ... he’s a Jhereg.”

  “I saw that. But I was polite to him. Did you notice?”

  “Yes. It showed great restraint.”

  Telnan smiled.


  “You notice I kept my face straight, Loiosh?”

  “Yeah, Boss. It showed great restraint.”

  “So, why would I have heard of him?”

  “The story is, he assassinated the Emperor right before the Inter­regnum.”

  “Oh! That Mario.” He frowned. “I thought he’d been killed.”

  “I guess not. Or else it didn’t take.”

  He nodded.

  The shamy melted on my tongue, taking with it the taste of the garlic, but not the memory.

  The idea, as Vili explained it to me long ago, is to keep your mouth from lingering too long on what has just happened; to prepare your senses for what comes next.

  Telnan seemed to like it. I know I did.

  A good meal, you see, is all about unexpected delight: it’s one thing for food to simply “taste good,” but a real master can make it taste good in a way that surprises you. And for that to work, you have to start from a place where you can permit yourself to be surprised. And, in­terestingly enough, the person eating has to cooperate for that to really be successful.

  I’m a decent cook. I’m an outstanding eater.

  For a long time—say, three or four seconds—I forgot that I was being pursued, and just stared at Lady Teldra; even the sensations that rushed through me from having her in my hand took second place to looking at her.

  A long, long time ago—about thirteen hours, more or less—I had held in my hand a long, slim Morganti knife, and with it, I had undergone, uh, certain experiences that had transformed it into what those with a flair for the over-dramatic called Godslayer and I called Lady Teldra. But it had been a long, slim Mor­ganti dagger.

  She didn’t feel any different; she still caressed my hand the way shamy caressed my tongue. But she was no longer a long knife; now she was a smaller knife, about ten inches of blade, wide, with a slight curve to her; a knife-fighter’s weapon. I’m no knife-fighter. Well, I mean, I can defend myself with one if I have to, but—

  “Boss!”

  Someone was standing about thirty yards in front of me. How she’d gotten there, I don’t know; there is slight shimmering in the air the instant before an individual arrives from a teleport, and a sort of aura effect for a second or two afterward. I didn’t see anything like that. Maybe I was distracted by staring at Lady Teldra. But there she was, in Jhereg gray, and she was pointing a finger at me, as if accusing me of something.