by Steven Brust
"Today, you idiot!" said grayswan.
"At least," agreed my friend.
Someone else, a man with a voice that sounded like a man's voice, said, "His tracks lead to this spot. Have you seen him?"
"I might have missed him," said Aibynn. "I'm tuning my drum, you see, and it requires concentration."
Grayswan demanded, "You mean he could have walked right by you? Cril and Sandy, look around. See if you can find any tracks leaving." There came the sound of feet moving near the base of the tree. I remained very still, not even waving the smoke away from my face; it wasn't very thick, anyway.
Aibynn said, "This part of preparing the drum is very difficult. I must—"
Musk owl said, "You're Aibynn of Lowporch, aren't you?"
"Why, yes."
"I heard you drum at the Winter Festival. You're very good."
"Thank you."
"That's a new drum you're making?"
Grayswan: "We don't have time to—"
Aibynn: "Why, yes. This is the shell of the sweetclam. The head is made from the skin of a nyth, as big a one as you can find. The beater is made from the jawbone, wrapped in nythskin and cloth. To prepare the head, you make a fire of langwood, and season the fire with rednut shells, drownweeds, clove, dreamgrass, silkbuds, the roots of the trapvine—"
Another voice, a man's I hadn't heard before, said, "Nothing. He must be around here somewhere."
Aibynn said, "This one is almost done. I'm just tuning it. You can also change the pitch when you play it. This knob, you see, I hold in my left hand, and when I turn it this way the head becomes tighter and the tone rises. This way lowers the pitch." He demonstrated.
"I see," said musk owl.
Grayswan said, "Look, this dwarf has killed four of the King's guards, and we have every reason to think he—"
Aibynn continued demonstrating. The sound produced by the drum was a single smooth pulse, out of which rhythms began to emerge. I noticed an odd, sweet smell drifting up to me, probably from the treatment he had given the drumhead. The pulsing became more and more complex, and I began to hear beats within it, and I became more aware of the variations in tone. The sweet smell grew stronger.
As he played, he said, "You have to play the drum for a few hours after it's seasoned, to allow the head to work into the shell." His voice wove in and out of the pulses, the rhythms, sometimes riding high above them, sometimes supporting them from beneath, and I wondered idly if it was changing pitch and tone or if the drum was, and were those voices mixed in with it? "Then the straps must be moistened with an emulsion made from the sap of a teardrop elm ... they will respond to long pulses and slow pulses ... so the rhythm emerges from the drum itself ... the Lecuda calls the dance, or the spell, which is really the same ... some of the oldest drums sound the best because the shell itself begins to absorb the sound, so after many years ... the last time I tried one of those, I had borrowed a drum. ..."
Loiosh said, "Boss, did he say dreamgrass? Boss?"
Then I felt like lying down, then I was falling, and felt like I was passing right through the branches without touching them. I heard someone say, "Look!" but I don't remember hitting the ground.
Lesson Four
Handling Interrogation
To a dzurlord, civilized means adhering to proper customs of dueling. To a Dragonlord, civilized means conforming to all the social niceties of mass mayhem. To a Yendi, civilized means making sure no one ever knows exactly what you're up to. In the land of my ancestors, civilized means never drinking a red wine at more than fifty-five or less than fifty degrees. The islands had their own notions of civilization, and I decided I liked them.
"We're civilized here, Jhereg," said my interrogator, beneath brows you could have planted maize in. "We do not beat or torture our prisoners."
Of all the responses that sprang to mind, I decided the quick nod would be safest. His mouth twitched, and I wondered if I'd get to know him well enough to know what that indicated.
"On the other hand," he continued, "you can probably expect to be executed."
On reflection, his brows weren't all that bushy; they just seemed that way because of his high, hairless forehead. He looked more like an Athyra than anything else, and acted a bit like one, too: cold, intellectual, and distant. "Executed for what?" I said.
He ignored this. We both knew for what, and if I didn't want to admit it, that was my concern. He said, "I am assuming that you are either a paid assassin or are fanatically loyal to some person, entity, or cause. It is possible that if you cooperate with us by revealing all of the circumstances which led you to take this action, you may live. Unlikely, but possible." He spoke a lot like Morrolan, a friend of mine you'll meet later.
I started in on another protestation of innocence but he gestured me to silence. "Think it over," he said, and stood up slowly. "We can give you some time to think, but not a great deal. I'll be back." He left me alone again.
Of what shall I tell you now? Time, place, or circumstance? Time, then. I'd been there three days, during which I'd been attended by various persons concerned about my health, and this was the first day I'd been able to walk the six or so steps to the slop bucket in the corner without leaning on the walls all the way. That was about the most I could do, but I was proud of it.
I could tell day from night because I could almost see the outside through a narrow window about eight feet up the brick wall. There were thick horizontal bars across the window, which I suspected had been added after the place was built—perhaps very recently, like three days ago. I noted it as a possible weakness. I didn't think the room had been originally designed to hold prisoners, but it worked. The door was very thick and, from what I could hear before it was opened, had an iron bar across it on the outside. There was a cot that was longer than it had to be, made of something soft that rustled in my ears whenever I moved. I had been given a tan-colored shapeless robe of some animal skin. I didn't know if it was their custom to remove clothing from prisoners, or if they had found so many weapons in my clothing that they'd deduced—correctly—that they'd never be able to find them all. I was also barefoot, which I've never liked, even as a kid.
I got two meals a day. The first I'm still blurry on. The second was a fish stew that was completely flavorless except for too much salt. The next was some sort of mush that tasted better than it looked, but only a little. The one after that was a squid dish that a good cook could have done fine things with. The latest one, the remains of which were on a wooden plate on the floor next to me, involved boiled vegetables and a bit of fish with a loaf of coarse, dark bread. The bread was actually pretty good.
Twice now, I had tried small spells to heal myself, but nothing had happened. This was very odd. It was one thing if they had means to cut off my access to the Orb, but witchcraft is a matter of skill and one's innate psychic energy; I didn't see any way to cut someone off from that.
On the other hand, I remembered Loiosh commenting that people around here seemed to be psionically invisible to him, which also wasn't normal, and might be related. I had also tried a few times to reach Morrolan and Sethra, but got nowhere; I wasn't certain if that was a matter of distance or something else.
Loiosh hadn't been in touch with me the entire time. I very much wanted to know if he was all right. I had the feeling that if anything had happened to him I'd know, but I'd never been out of touch with him for this long before.
To take my mind off this, I went over the conversation I'd just had with the something-or-other of the Royal Guard. His remarks about them maybe letting me live could be discounted—I'd killed four of their citizens plus the King. But he might have been telling the truth about his definition of "civilized." Good news, if true; the last time I'd tried to hold up under torture I hadn't done so well.
But the real puzzler was one of his first remarks. He'd walked in and stared down at me, given his title, and said, "We are holding you for the assassination of His King Haro Olithorvold. We want you to
tell us why you killed him, for whom, where you came from—"
I interrupted him with as credible an expression of innocent outrage as I could manage. He shook his head and said, "Don't try to deny it. Your accomplice has admitted his part in it."
I said, "Oh. Well, that's different, then. If you've got my accomplice, what can I do? I confess to—what was it you said I did? And who was my accomplice?"
That was when he'd started in on being civilized, and now, lying there aching and worried about Loiosh, I wondered many things about my "accomplice." It was obvious who they meant—the drummer I'd stumbled over, so to speak, in the woods. When I'd become conscious again, and had figured out that I'd been knocked out by the smoke (he'd mentioned dreamgrass, after all), I'd assumed he'd done it deliberately. Now, though, I wondered.
It was still possible he had, but they simply didn't believe him. Or it could have been an accident, and he was just what he appeared to be. Or they could be playing some sort of deep game that hadn't made itself apparent yet.
Not that any of this mattered, since I couldn't do anything about any of the possibilities, but I was curious. I wasn't worried. They would most likely spend at least a day or two trying to get me to tell them who had hired me before they killed me. I considered telling them the truth, just to watch bushy-brows' face, but it would have been pointless. Besides, in my business you don't give out that information; it's part of the job.
But in a day or two I could regain my strength and attempt to escape. If I failed, they'd kill me. It was nothing to be worried about. Scared spitless, yes, but not worried.
I did not want to die, you see. I'd died before and hadn't liked it, and this time, if it happened, there'd be no chance for revivification. I'd heard stories of escapes from imprisonment, but, looking around, I just didn't see any way to manage it, and, damn it all, it hadn't been such a bad life I'd worked my way up from nothing to something and I wanted to see how things came out. I wanted to be around to watch for a while longer. I wanted to leave some changes behind me, to make things a bit different before I went on my way.
Different? Maybe even better, though that had never been high on my list before. Maybe, if I got out of this, I'd do that. Are you listening, Verra? Can you hear me? They've got me trapped and scared, so maybe it doesn't mean anything, but it would be nice if, before I died, I could think to myself that the world was a little better in some way for my having been here. Is that crazy, Demon Goddess? Is this what happened to Cawti, is this why I hardly recognize my wife anymore? I don't know how I'll feel if I get out of this, but I want to find out. Help me, Goddess. Get me out of here. Save my life.
But she'd said I couldn't reach her from here, so I would have to save myself, and that just didn't look likely.
I'd been thinking and dozing and hurting and recovering and sweating for a few more hours when another meal arrived—this time some dumplings with a sauce that meat had been waved at, accompanied by seaweed and more of the bread. I was going to have to escape soon for yet another reason: If I got tired of the bread, I'd have nothing to live for.
Scratch off another day, another visit from the local bone-tightener, and another couple of meals. I was beginning to feel like I could maybe move if I had to. The pain from the wounds was almost gone, but I still hurt from where I'd bruised myself in the fall. I expect that I'd have broken bones if my fall hadn't been "cushioned" by tree limbs, which had given me teeth-loosening love pats all the way down. If I had broken a bone, chances are you'd have heard this story, if at all, from a completely different viewpoint. And the end would have been different, too. My questioner came back after letting me ponder for an entire two days, I suppose to see if I got nervous. He sat down a few feet away from me. I might have tried to jump him if I'd been in better shape and had my weapons and knew more about the layout of the place and the position of the guards and if he hadn't looked like he was ready for it.
"Well?" he said, trying to look stern and I guess succeeding.
"I would like to confess," I said.
"Good."
"I would like to confess that I wish very much to have a large dish of kethna, cubed and stir-fried with peppers and onions, seasoned with lemon and the rinds of clubfruit, with—"
"You obviously think this is funny," he said.
I shook my head. "Food is never funny. The meals I've been getting are tragic."
I noticed his hands kept trying to form fists, and decided that he was becoming impatient with me. Either they were serious about not beating prisoners, or he was saving up something good. He said, "Do you want to die?"
"Well, no," I said. "But it's bound to happen sooner or later."
"We want to know who sent you."
"I was following a vision."
He glared, then got up and walked out. I wondered what they'd throw at me next. I hoped it wasn't more seaweed.
I spent a few hours the next day remembering previous incarcerations. There had been one especially long one in the dungeons beneath the Imperial Palace, as part of the affair that had gained me my exalted position in the Jhereg and had first brought my friend Aliera to the attention of the Empress. That had been a few weeks, and the worst thing had been the boredom. I'd dealt with it mostly by exercising and devising a communication system with my fellow inmates with which we could exchange rude comments about our various guards. This time I was in no condition to exercise, and I didn't know where the other inmates, if any, were. I'd about decided that maybe some gentle isometrics wouldn't hurt too much when the door opened again.
"Aibynn," I said. "Have you come to tend my poor afflicted body? Or minister to my spirit?"
He sat down on the other bunk, looking faintly surprised to see me. "Hey," he said. "I guess you aren't used to dreamgrass."
"I was in a weakened state," I said. "Try it on me again sometime."
He nodded thoughtfully and said, "I didn't think you'd be alive. I thought they were going to, you know—" He made a chopping motion at the back of his neck.
"Probably are," I said.
"Yeah. Me, too." He leaned back, not seeming at all disturbed. I got the impression that he carried fatalism maybe a bit too far. Of course, it was quite possible that he was working for them. It was also possible that he wasn't, that he'd been put in here so we could have conversations for them to overhear. The level of subtlety was about right for what I'd seen of these people.
I said, "Had any good meals?"
He considered this carefully. "Not really, no."
"Neither have I."
"I wouldn't mind—" He stopped, staring up at the window. I followed his gaze, but didn't see anything remarkable. I looked back at him.
"What is it?"
"There are bars on the window," he said
"Yes?"
"The room I was in didn't have a window."
"What about it?"
He picked up the wooden spoon from the remainder of my last meal, went up next to the window, and tapped one of the bars.
I said, "You think you can knock it loose?"
"Huh? Oh, no, nothing like that. But listen." He tapped it again. It gave out the usual sound of thick iron when struck by thick wood. "Doesn't that sound great?"
I tried to decide if he was joking. "Ummm, I think it needs tuning," I said.
"That's true. I wonder if it would work to wrap a strip of cloth around part of it."
I sighed and settled back onto my bed, hoping they were, in fact, listening. A few hours later the door opened. A pair of guards held their short spears and looked like they knew how they functioned. My friend the Royal whatever was behind them. He nodded to me and said, "Please come with me."
I nodded to Aibynn and said, "Drum for me."
"I will," he said.
To bushy-brows I said, "I'm not certain I can walk very far."
"We can carry you if necessary."
"I'll try," I said. And I did. I was still a bit shaky on my feet, and my back hurt, but I could do it. I w
obbled a bit more than I had to just on the principle that it couldn't hurt if they thought I was worse off than I was. We only went a few feet down the hall, though, to a room which had a pair of low backless stools and several windows. He took one of the stools, and I lowered myself onto the other, not enjoying it.
He said, "There has been considerable discussion about what to do with the two of you. Some are in favor of suspending the ancient laws against torture. Others think you should be publicly executed right away, which will prevent the riots that seem to be brewing."
He paused there, to see if I had anything to say. Since I didn't think he'd want to hear about how my back felt, I stayed mute.
"At the moment His Majesty Corcor'n, the son of the man you killed, has everyone convinced to wait until we hear from the mainland. We expect them to deny having sent you, but we want to give them the option. If they do the expected, we will probably execute you. If you're curious, most people are in favor of stoning you to death, though some think you should be bound and thrown to the orca."
"I'm not really curious," I said.
He nodded. "While we're waiting, you still have the chance to tell us about it. We will also be telling your comrade the same thing. If he talks before you do, he will most likely be exiled. If you talk, he will die and you might be allowed to leave. At least you will be allowed to take poison, a far more pleasant death than either of the other two."
"You know that from personal experience?" I said.
He sighed. "You don't want to tell us about it? Who sent you? Why?"
"I just came here for the fishing," I said.
He turned to the guards. "Return him to the cell and bring the other one." They did this. I could have said something clever to Aibynn as we passed, but nothing came to mind. I'd have given quite a bit to be able to hear what went on between the two of them, but I still had no connection to the Orb, and witchcraft, as I've said, wasn't working. Maybe they were just sitting around playing s'yang stones long enough to make it look good. Or maybe they really believed he was helping me. Or maybe there was something else entirely going on that I was completely missing. It wouldn't be the first time.
