by Steven Brust
He stood up slowly, dusted himself off, and looked at me. Yeah, he could glare better standing. I could have given him a lesson in manners, but that wasn’t what I was there for.
I gestured over my shoulder without letting my eyes leave them. I knew the smoke was quite visible from here.
“Did either of you see what happened?”
They both shook their heads.
“If you had, would you tell me?”
They glared, but gave no other response.
I took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. I knew the only reason I wanted to take it out on this pair was that they were the ones in front of me; but that didn’t help all that much.
Yeah, I got my temper under control.
I looked at the two of them, then finally focused on the presumed father. “My name is Merss Vladimir. You see the smoke. Someone burned that house down either before or after killing everyone who lived there. I don’t know how many bodies there are, because I couldn’t get close enough to count, but at least six. And at least two of them are children. They were my kin. I want to know who did it. If you know, and you don’t tell me, I will hurt you badly.”
He dropped his eyes, and his mouth worked. “We didn’t see,” he said. “I sent K—I sent my boy over to look, and he saw what you did. We were talking about what to do about it when you, when you showed up.”
“All right,” I said. “I’m not from here. What is customary to do with bodies, to show respect?”
“Eh?”
“What do you do with the bodies of those who die?”
“We bury them,” he said, as if I were an idiot.
“What else?”
“What … sometimes Father Noij will ask the Demon Goddess to look after their souls. Sometimes not. Depends on if, well, if they were known to follow Her.”
“Were they?”
He nodded.
I turned to the younger one. “Go get Father Noij. Have him meet me there. And I’ll need a shovel.”
The father’s mouth worked again. “I have two shovels,” he said. “I’ll help.” “Were they friends?”
He nodded. “I heard that they, well I heard things. I didn’t care. They never bothered me. And one winter—”
“All right. You can help.”
“I’m sorry I—”
“Forget it.”
I turned and walked the long, long mile back to the Merss place.
In what had once, I guess, been the backyard there was what I thought was a maple tree. I sat down and rested my back against it while I waited. Swirls of smoke came from the rubble of what had been the house, and I could see at least three blackened shapes that had once been people.
I sat there and tried to face it that I had almost certainly caused this. Or instigated it. Someone else had caused it. I would find out who that was and I would do bad things to him. Whatever was going on, this shouldn’t have happened.
The shadow of the tree had shortened considerably when Loiosh said, “I think someone’s coming.” A minute or so later, I heard footsteps. I stood up and dusted myself off. The peasant had a pair of shovels over his shoulder.
He walked up to me and nodded, handed me one of the shovels.
“My name is Vaski,” he said. “I’m a free farmer.”
“All right,” I said. “Where should we dig?”
“Under the maple. They always liked that maple.”
See? I knew it was a maple.
“All right. How big should the holes be?”
“About as deep as a man’s height. We lay them on their backs.”
“All right,” I said. I took off my cloak and folded it, then removed my shirt. He pointed to a spot and we started digging.
Ever heard someone tell you that hard physical labor can be soothing? Can take your mind off your problems? Can leave you feeling better? I’d heard that. In my opinion, hard physical labor gives you blisters, and the only real distraction I got was trying to remember the spells I’d once known for curing them. He was much better than me, by the way; turns out there is even skill involved in digging holes. Who knew?
We were partway into it when a wagon drawn by a small cream-colored horse pulled up with the son and someone who introduced himself as Father Noij. He was short and fat, with brown curly hair around his ears.
“Merss Vladimir,” I told him.
“I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” he said. “What, exactly, was your relationship to the family?”
“My mother was a Merss. I took her name. I’m not certain beyond that; I was young when she died.”
“And your father—?”
“He’s dead too.” I left it at that, and he nodded.
“You came here to find them?”
“Yes. Did you know them well?”
He nodded.
“Tell me about them.”
He did, but a lot of it I’m not sharing with you, whoever you are. Some things should stay private, and it wouldn’t help you understand what happened anyway. He talked, mostly about Vilmoth, whom he described as sour and stubborn, but a loving father. As he spoke, Vaski’s son looked through one of the outbuildings and found another shovel.
The digging went faster with three of us.
When Father Noij had at last finished, he said, “What of the stock?”
“Who inherits?” I said.
He shrugged.
Vaski said, “If there were a will, it’s burned up by now.”
“No other family?”
“There were once; they’ve moved away to get away from—” He broke off and glanced at Father Noij. “—from things,” he concluded. “Or changed their name.”
“Changed their name?”
“That means they disinherit themselves.”
Yeah.
“You may be the nearest relative,” said Father Noij. “Perhaps you should decide what to do with what is left.”
“Pretty casual about this stuff, aren’t you?”
“Anyone who wants to object can always see the Count.”
“Not the Guild?” I said.
He stiffened a little, then relaxed. “It would fall under the purview of the county, not the town.”
“All right. I’ll look things over, see if there are any documents or keepsakes that have survived. Other than those, if it’s up to me, these people can have the stock.”
Vaski grunted a thanks.
It turned out there needed to be seven holes, not six; one of them very very small. It made me sick. If I had still had my Organization, it would have been the work of a day to confirm that the Guild was behind it, and two more days to demolish the Guild so that no trace of it remained. I thought about that as I worked my shovel and sweated.
The shadows had grown short and then long again when all the holes were dug; neat rectangles, each with a pile of dirt next to it.
“All right,” said Vaski. “Let’s get the bodies.”
That’s something else you don’t need to hear about. Let’s just say that most of them were no longer recognizable, and it was as bad as you’d think. I’d spent a lot of my life around death, and seen my share of corpses, also your share, and your uncle’s share; but Vaski handled it better than I did. By the time we were done, it was all I could do not to show how badly shaken I was.
We filled in the holes one at a time, while Father Noij intoned softly in a language I didn’t know, but from which I could occasionally pick out a name; usually Verra’s but sometimes that of a corpse. He passed his hands over the holes, making cabalistic gestures, and from each picked up some dirt which he whispered over before replacing. I didn’t feel any magic, but with the amulet I was wearing, I probably wouldn’t. I wondered if the Demon Goddess was actually paying attention.
Partway through the service, we were joined by three more people, who proved to be Vaski’s wife, daughter, around twelve, and youngest son, I’d guess at six or seven. His wife was carrying a basket, which made me realize that I hadn’t eaten since I broke m
y fast that morning, and it was now late afternoon. With everything, all the different emotions warring in my skull, my stomach was still demanding attention. It’s enough to make you laugh or cry or something.
Eventually, the last hole was filled in, the last of the rituals completed. It was still late afternoon. It seemed like it should have been much later.
Vaski and I went through the charred remains of the house, then briefly through the outbuildings, but didn’t find anything of interest. When it was time to eat, Father Noij insisted we draw water and carefully wash our hands. There was a touch of ritual about that, I guess because we’d been handling dead people. There was still some light when the basket was opened, and we ate chewy, sweet dark bread, a harsh goat cheese, dried kethna, and a white liqueur that tasted of cherries but was oddly refreshing. I found I was eating slowly, in spite of my hunger. No one spoke while we ate; it was like that was part of the ritual, too. Maybe it was.
It had become pretty dark by the time we finished. I nodded to Vaski. Father Noij said, “I can drive you to your inn, if you wish.”
“I’d like that,” I said. “Ah, is it customary to pay you for such services?”
“The burial, or the ride?” he asked, and then chuckled. “A pittance as a gesture would not be improper.”
I gave him a few copper pennies, and he nodded. He went over and said a few words to Vaski and his family, then climbed into the wagon. The horse shook its head and made some sort of horse sound as I climbed up next to Father Noij. He turned the wagon around and started us back to town. I’m no judge, but it seemed that he knew how to handle the horse and the wagon.
It was a long ride back to town after a long day. I started to drowse off, and I might have fallen asleep if he hadn’t said, “Feel free to rest; I will wake you when we reach your inn.” I hadn’t told him which inn I was staying at. No, that didn’t really mean anything, but it made me nervous enough that I stayed awake for the rest of the journey.
“Thank you for the ride,” I told Father Noij as we reached my inn.
“You are welcome, Merss Vladimir,” he told me. “And I am sorry that this happened.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Someone else will be, too.”
He shook his head. “That is no way to think.”
I stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Revenge is self-destructive.”
“I thought you were a priest of Verra.”
“And if I am?”
“When has the Demon Goddess frowned on vengeance?”
“I do not speak for the Goddess, Merss Vladimir. Though I serve her, and the people of this town through her, I cannot make such a claim. I speak as one man to another. Your desire for vengeance will—”
“You’re bloody serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Amazing.”
He said, “I once knew a man who spent thirty years—thirty years, attempting to—”
“Feh. That’s not about vengeance, that’s obsession.”
“Nevertheless—”
“Thank you for the ride, Father,” I told him. I hopped down from the wagon and entered the inn, Loiosh hissing laughter in my ear.
What surprised me when I walked into the Pointy Hat was how busy it was; I guess it was only then I realized that, by most standards, it was still early in the evening. I took a quick look to see if Orbahn was in. He wasn’t. If I wanted to, I could decide that was suspicious, but it was too much work just then.
I took myself up to my room, removed my boots and cloak, and stretched out on the bed.
A part of it hadn’t hit me until that moment: the realization that I wasn’t going to be able to speak to them, to get to know them, to ask them who my mother was, and why she had left. A big piece of my past had just been lopped off. I was going to find who had done it, and I was going to find out why, and I was going to hurt somebody very, very badly.
“Loiosh?”
“Yes, Boss?”
“We need to find a safe place tomorrow to take the amulet off long enough for me to do something about these blisters.”
“Safe? Boss—”
“Safer. Sort of safe.”
“There is no such time or place.”
“Think it’s safe for me to be wandering around with my hands blistered?”
“Aren’t there other ways to cure it that don’t involve letting the Jhereg find you?”
“Sure. That should only take a week or so.”
“We can hide for a week.”
“Yes, but we aren’t going to.”
“Okay, Boss.”
He fell silent, and I stared up at the ceiling for a long time, remembering the bodies in the ruins of the house, and wrapping sheets around them so we could drag them to the holes we’d dug. Oddly, my dreams weren’t about that, they were about digging the holes; I dug them over and over in my sleep.
But I did sleep; I guess that’s the important thing.
Part Three
STEMINASTRIA
The steminastria, which can last for several weeks depending on food supply, is the most active of stages, in the sense that it is constantly moving, and constantly eating, never leaving the pond in which it was born. In seasons where there is great competition, or little food, the steminastria will often die rather than transform … . One of the more unusual features of the steminastria is that at this stage, when it eats far more than at any other stage (at least nine times its own weight every day), it is a pure vegetarian—living on the underwater plants and lichen. We still do not know exactly what triggers the transition to its next stage, unless it is simply that the enormous quantity of food it consumes causes it to reach a point where it must transform before it literally bursts … .
High on the list of the steminastria’s natural enemies must be itself, when considering its reckless disregard for the size and characteristics of its predators, even when based on its own experiences … .
—Oscaani: Fauna of the Middle South: A Brief Survey,
Volume 6, Chapter 17
5
BORAAN (determined): Search! Hunt! Find it!
FIRST STUDENT (frightened): What if it isn’t anywhere?
LEFITT (calm): Then it will take rather longer.
—Miersen, Six Parts Water
Day Two, Act III, Scene 5
When I woke up, I hurt.
My shoulders, my arms, my back, my legs.
Why my legs? I don’t know. What do I look like, a physicker?
I lay in bed moaning for what seemed a long time. If the Jhereg had found me then, they’d have had an easy target. I’m not even sure I’d have minded.
Eventually I moaned, moved, moaned, sat up, moaned, swung my legs down to the floor, and moaned.
“If I so much as suspect you are even thinking about laughing, by Verra’s tits and toenails, Loiosh, I will—”
“Never entered my mind, Boss.”
Putting on my boots was a test of my manhood; I just barely passed. Then I moaned some more. Eventually, I made my way to the stairs, and then down them, one at a time, slowly.
“Boss, how far can you go?”
“As far as I have to.”
Inchay looked up. “Coffee?”
“Brandy,” I said. “The foulest you have.”
He looked startled, but didn’t argue. I took the cup, downed it in one shot, and shook my head. “That’s better,” I said. “Now I’ll have some coffee.” I made my way over to a table and sat down.
After about an hour of drinking coffee I started to feel like maybe I could move. I mentally ran through the inventory of witchcraft supplies I had with me. Not many, but they’d do, and I didn’t feel like going back to the shop in town and trying to actually purchase anything; I’d either kill the first merchant who looked at me wrong, or, worse, be unable to.
Okay, I had what I needed; I didn’t doubt my ability to make the spell work. The only question was: Where should I do it? I didn’t want t
o cast right there at the inn, because I had to take the amulet off, and it was bad enough giving the Jhereg a chance—slim but present—of finding the area where I was; handing them the inn I was staying at was just making their life a little too easy. I could maybe find a place out of town, but being surrounded by people—humans—was part of my protection.
I hated that I had to do this; that I was being forced to take this risk, just because of blisters and stupid body aches that I gotten—
No, no.
Not going to be able to do any sort of spell while having dismemberment fantasies. The Art involves channeling and controlling emotion, but the emotion needs to correspond to the spell, and the emotions I was feeling right then didn’t have a whole lot to do with healing.
I remembered pleasant days with Cawti, which made me a bit melancholy—okay, maybe more than a bit—but that’s always a good cure for rage. I thought about what went wrong, and what went right, and made stupid plans in my head to win her back. Funny, that; they always involved rescuing her, when I knew damned well that rescuing her had been one of the problems. No one likes being rescued. The only thing worse is, well, not being rescued.
So, yeah, I played tricks with my own head until I felt like maybe I could do a Working, and by the time I’d done that, I knew where I could do it, too. And, besides, the thought made me chuckle. Loiosh would have a lot to say about it, and that made me chuckle too.
“What are you planning, Boss?”
“Just a spell, Loiosh. You’ll see.”
I stood up and made my way—still slowly and painfully, but maybe a little better—out of the door, and began walking down the street. Slowly.
“Loiosh, I hurt.”
“We can stop for cheese.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Eventually, I made it to the other end, to the other inn, and went into the stable. The stable-boy was there; he seemed to be in his early twenties, and had deep-set eyes and thin lips. He said, “Greetings, my lord, may I—” He stopped and stared at his hand, into which I had just placed three silver coins. “My lord?”
I gestured to the stable. “I need to use the space there for about an hour.”
