by Steven Brust
Eventually the coffee did its work, and my brain started performing in a semblance of its usual manner. I asked the host where the Count’s manor was, and was given a scowl, a suspicious look, and directions that were a good ten miles from town. Which meant I could either spend all day walking there and then back, or …
I sighed and asked if there was anyone who rented horses. Yes, in fact, he did; there were stables in the back, and a stable-boy who would help me pick one out if I showed him a chit. How much? Okay.
“Quit laughing, Loiosh.”
“Boss, sometimes you just ask the impossible.”
The muscle aches had completely vanished, so I might as well get new ones. I went back to the table and took my time finishing my coffee, then walked out the back door to the stables, I suppose much the way a man might walk to the Executioner’s Star.
This “stable-boy” was somewhat older than I was, balding, tall, and had piercing black eyes as well as enough girth to make me feel sorry for the horses. When he began to take the equipment down I got a look at his right biceps. Maybe part of his job was picking up the horses, I don’t know.
He didn’t say a lot as he worked, just grunted when I explained I wanted a horse that would let me stay on top of him, and wouldn’t do anything to embarrass me. He picked out a rather fat-looking horse that is I think the color horse people call “sorrel” though it looked brown to me. If it’s brown, why can’t they call it brown?
He led it up to me, helped guide my foot into the stirrup, and held it while I mounted; then he went around and got my other foot placed.
“Her name is Marsi,” he said.
“All right.”
Marsi seemed indifferent to the proceedings, which pleased me. I felt very, very tall. Too tall. Anything that high up is liable to come down again.
I got going in the right direction, and tried not to let my teeth knock against each other. Marsi, may all the blessings be upon her, walked significantly faster than I did, and felt this meant she had no need to trot, canter, gallop, or turn handsprings. I made a vow to give a nice tip to the stable-boy for not being one of the practical-joking sort one hears about.
The morning grew warm; I removed my cloak and draped it over Marsi’s back—which is much tougher than it sounds on horseback. Thanks to his kindness and Marsi’s good nature, as well as the directions from the host, I felt as good as could be expected by the time I saw the double row of trees that had been described as the entrance to the manor.
It was a long ride to the manor itself, during which I rode by gardeners who glanced at me as if uncertain if they were supposed to make an obeisance. It gradually occurred to me that a lot of the doubt came from the horse. I was, perhaps, the only man within a hundred-mile circle who didn’t consider himself an expert on horseflesh, and I was probably doing the equivalent of Morrolan riding up to the Ascension Day Ball in a hay wagon.
Well, that’s all right, Marsi; I love you anyway.
Some sort of groom, wearing shiny buttons, stood outside the door of the gray stone manor, perfectly positioned at the bottom of the shallow stairway between two white pillars that flanked the red wood doorway. A man-at-arms stood next to each pillar, appearing part of the decoration; they wore red and green and metal hats and each carried some sort of ax-like weapon that was taller than the guy wielding it. It didn’t look very practical, but, on the other hand, I’d hate to have one swung at me.
I felt myself come under their gaze. They didn’t move, exactly, but they were certainly paying attention. One had the most impressive mustache I think I’ve ever seen: a massive thing that curled its way well past the sides of his face, held in place by a special sort of waxy-glue that I knew was sold in South Adrilankha. I’d never used it, myself. The other one had a bit of reddish hair peeking out from under his tin hat; I guessed he wasn’t a native Fenarian.
If I had to, I could take them both. Enough said.
As I approached, the groom looked at me, frowned, and hesitated. I didn’t—I climbed down off the horse, thanking Verra that I managed the trick with a semblance of grace, and kept myself from teetering only by dropping my body weight as my grandfather had taught me to do when fencing. I don’t think I looked ridiculous. I took the cloak from the back of the horse, then put the reins into the groom’s hand before he could decide he didn’t want them. I threw my cloak over my shoulder. I can look good doing that because I’ve practiced, and no, I’m not proud of that. I said, “Baron Vladimir Merss to see His Lordship. See to my horse while I have someone announce me.”
If I were going to give myself a new name, why not give myself a new title to go with it?
The groom barely hesitated, then said, “Yes, my lord.”
I waited while he led the horse away, watching closely as if I were uncertain he knew his business; in fact, I didn’t want to try walking just yet the way my legs were shaking. The guards watched me without appearing to—I know that trick. I have no idea if I fooled them with the watching the groom thing; probably not.
The groom led Marsi down a path and out of sight, and I made my trembling way up the three steps—they seemed much deeper steps when trying to climb them than just looking at them—and leaned against the door for a moment before pulling the rope. I heard a gong echo faintly from inside the house, and not long thereafter the door swung open.
The butler—for so I took him to be, and so he was—looked very much the part. He could very well have been picked for his appearance: tall and wellbuilt, clean-shaven, with a proper fringe of white hair. He gave me a bow and a look of polite, noncommittal inquiry.
I said, “Baron Vladimir Merss to see His Lordship.”
“You have a card, my lord?”
“I do not.”
His face betrayed nothing. “May I convey to His Lordship the nature of your business?”
“Give him this.” I removed the silk package and handed it to him.
“Very good, my lord.” He bowed and went away with it.
Ten minutes later he returned with the package; the seal had been broken. I took the package with a small bow and replaced it in my cloak without looking.
The butler cleared his throat and said, “The Count will see you now.”
7
LEFITT: Oh, gracious. Here? What will I wear? Oh, my. I never know how to speak to nobility.
BORAAN: My dear, you are nobility.
LEFITT (distracted): Yes. That is why I have given over talking to myself.
—Miersen, Six Parts Water
Day One, Act III, Scene 3
He turned and led me into the interior of the manor. I followed, carefully keeping the smirk off my lips.
There was a certain kind of restrained opulence about the manor—its corridors wide and high; its halls hung with pictures of, I presume, ancestors; its furnishings sturdy and elegant without being gaudy. I approved of it a little bit against my will. I saw four men-at-arms during the passage; they seemed to be concentrating on not being bored. They looked like the others, but didn’t have metal hats on. I only hoped, for their sakes, that when I was out of sight they got to lean against the wall and scratch themselves.
He led me up a winding set of stairs to a hallway covered in white carpeting with a highly polished tan wooden railing on the side overlooking the central hall. Two more guards stood before it, and they exchanged a look with the butler, then, very quickly, crossed their tall ax-things, barring the door. Rocza almost jumped from my shoulder at the sudden movement, and Loiosh was pretty startled as well. So was I. Before I had time to wonder, the guards snapped back into place, clearing the way again.
At the same time the butler stepped forward and said—how to tell you what he said? It was silly, and it rhymed, but it’s hard to translate to get the feel right. The closest I can come is, “Baron Vladimir Merss, on bended knee, requests my lord the Count to see,” but it was longer than that, and even stupider. In Fenarian, everything rhymes, so it could have been an accident that this did
, but I don’t think so. If I hadn’t been so surprised, I think I’d have laughed out loud.
The Count was in the room that, I’ve no doubt, he called his “study.” He was old, old, old, old. A big man, though he somehow looked shrunken as he sat. His hands, crossed on the desk in front of him, were lined and wrinkled with veins standing out. His eyes were mild and there were more veins apparent in his nose. His hair and stiff mustaches were iron gray. His complexion was swarthy—about like mine—but had an unhealthy look to it. He wore a sort of red mantle over what looked like blue velvet, which made him look both bigger and more sickly; there was some sort of intricate scrollwork decorating the mantle; very likely it spelled out his lineage or something.
This was my first encounter with the Nobility of my homeland. I was underwhelmed.
His voice, however, was strong. “Baron Merss,” he said. “Forgive me if I do not rise.”
“My lord Count,” I said, bowing deeply. “Thank you on behalf of Her Majesty for seeing me.”
“Please, sit. Of course. Wine? Brandy?”
“Wine would be nice.”
He rang a bell on his desk. The butler entered, was told to bring in a glass of wine and a snifter of something he called barparlot. He left and returned fast enough that I might have suspected he’d had them ready.
“Well,” said the Count as he raised his glass and I raised mine. “I trust the Empress wishes for paper?”
I’d half expected it, but I still love it when they hand it to you on a platter; he’d just done ninety percent of my work for me. I did the rest: I nodded.
“No doubt, you will wish to see the facilities?”
“And bring back samples, of course.”
“Of course.” He hesitated. “May I ask, my lord …” He trailed off.
“Why I’ve been staying in town without letting you or anyone know my business?”
He smiled. He had most of his teeth, though there was one in front on the bottom that was missing.
I shrugged. “I wanted to observe things from an outsider’s perspective first. I wanted to see the setting, watch the deliveries go out, speak to some of the workers, that sort of thing.”
“Just to buy paper?”
I gave him a smile, and let him interpret it however he wished.
He grunted a little. “I am not involved much in the day-to-day activities of the mill, you know.”
“Mill?”
“The paper mill.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I take it you aren’t an expert on paper?”
I laughed. “Hardly. Merely a human with the good fortune to be trusted by Her Majesty. I am not expected to make informed judgments about the paper, just about the people involved.”
“It seems odd,” he said, “that the Empire would look to our little kingdom for something like this.”
I grinned. “No, it doesn’t, my lord. If it had seemed odd, you’d not have known my purpose so quickly. In fact, I would venture to guess that you have been expecting someone like me for some time.”
He nodded. “Well, yes. You are aware—or, perhaps, your Empress is, or one of her bureaucrats—that here is made the finest paper anywhere.”
“Exactly.”
He nodded. “When would be a good time for you to look over the mill?”
“The sooner the better,” I said. “How about tomorrow?”
“I’ll make the arrangements.”
I sat back and looked around. “I like your home.”
“Thank you,” he said. “It once belonged to the old Baron, before he sold it to my grandfather. It goes back many years. Though perhaps not so many to one who lives among the elfs. Is that difficult?”
“One can get used to anything,” I said. “Although, no slur on your, ah, your mill, sir, but the odor in your town is rather noticeable.”
He smiled a little. “There is a reason we picked an estate that is ten miles from the mill.”
I nodded. “Of course. I should do the same. Other than the odor, it is a pleasant town, though odd.”
“Odd?”
“The Guild,” I said.
“What of it?” He seemed a bit sharp.
“I didn’t mean to give offense,” I said. “Indeed, it had been my impression that the Guild had no standing with the county, and hence couldn’t reflect on yourself in any way.”
His cheek twitched a little; I’m not sure what that meant. “That is true,” he said. “I am not offended. But what is unusual about it?”
“Hmmm? I’ve known of Guilds that had complete control of some local craftsmen, but never of a Guild of merchants, or one that had such complete control of a town.”
He blinked. “I have control of the town,” he said. He sounded like he meant it.
“Well,” I said, “yes. No doubt. But still, the Guild—”
“Fugh,” he said, or something like it, and courtesy required me to change the subject. Sometimes in my business you don’t know if someone is lying or just plain crazy, and you have to live with that.
Meanwhile, I made a temporary retreat and asked him questions about his furnishings, the pictures in the Great Hall, and so on. He relaxed, and seemed to enjoy the conversation, while I tried to work around to a way to start pumping him again. During a pause between questions about the workings of the Imperial Court (some of which I could answer, the rest of which I could lie about plausibly) I said, “Another oddity is the set of beliefs concerning witchcraft. As a stranger from another country, that is odd to me.”
He didn’t appear to take the question at any more than face value. “What beliefs?” he asked.
“This notion of ‘light’ and ‘dark’ forms of the Art. It is new to me.”
“Odd you should bring that up,” he said.
“Oh?”
“I had meant to ask you about it.”
If he saw some expression of surprise on my face, that was all right; it was both honest and in character for the role I was playing. He glanced at Loiosh and Rocza, cleared his throat, and said, “It is obvious you’re a witch.”
“Well, yes,” I said.
“I am not. But it would seem that anything may be used for, ah, different purposes.”
“Well, yes.”
“For good, shall we say, or evil.”
“I had never exactly thought of it in those terms,” I said honestly, “but I guess I know what you mean.”
He nodded. “Well?”
“Uh, well what?”
“How would you describe your own practice?”
I drank some wine, then stared at the glass. It was a very nice glass, handblown, thin, delicate. “I have never considered myself evil,” I finally said.
“I imagine no one does,” he said.
“Maybe you could explain why this is important to you? It seems odd you should ask a stranger that question.”
He chuckled. “And impolite? I’m sorry. It has become important.”
I sat back a little. “How so?”
He gave one of those looks people give when they imagine they can look into your eyes and see if you’re lying. Just for the record, that doesn’t work. Well, sometimes it does, if you know what to look for. But don’t bet your life on it. And don’t try it on me.
After a moment, he said, “There is history there, stretching back for some years. That isn’t important right now. More recently, I suspect I have been, ah, harmed by a follower of the darker ways of your craft.”
“Recently,” I said. “How recently? I only got to town a couple of days ago.”
“Last night,” he said.
“Indeed? A busy night—I was harmed as well.”
“I know. I have simply assumed that it isn’t coincidental that, with family in this area, you were sent by your Empress.”
“Hardly. And I don’t think it coincidental that my kin were murdered after I arrived. Do you?”
“Unlikely,” he said laconically.
“I take it you have enemies.”
>
He nodded.
“So, then,” I said, “perhaps your enemies are mine.”
“Perhaps so,” he said. I could see him thinking, Or perhaps my enemy is you. Which I guess meant he could be telling the truth, or could be as straight-forward as a Yendi—that is to say, not.
“Would you care to tell me what happened to you?”
“Why not?” he said. “It’s no secret, or if it is it won’t be for long. Last night, my coachman was murdered.”
Okay, well, I don’t know what I’d expected, but it wasn’t that. I couldn’t say anything for a moment, while the anger I’d been trying to suppress threatened to erupt right here and now. I don’t know what I’d have done—torn apart the room? Thrown his glasses around? Beaten up his butler?
He saw something of what was going on inside of me, I guess, because he flinched.
“Did you know him?” he asked, looking genuinely puzzled.
“Someone,” I said, “is going to—”
“Boss!”
Loiosh was right. I stopped and just shook my head. I took a couple of deep breaths. “How was he killed?”
“Witchcraft, I am told. I haven’t yet learned the details.”
“Who would know them?”
He frowned. “This does not, I think, concern you, my lord.”
“My lord, in light of what happened to my family, I beg to disagree with you.”
“You think they are connected in some way?”
I knew they were connected in some way. “The timing seems significant,” I said. “Unless this sort of thing happens all the time around here.”
He nodded. “Yes, you may be right. But I know of no connection between my coachman or the Merss family, or between my coachman and you. Do you?”
“No. Nevertheless—”
