The Book of Dzur: Dzur ; Jhegaala

by Steven Brust

  “Good,” I said. “Stay with them.”

  “Will do, Boss. Be careful.”

  “I always am.”

  As I approached the entry area, the groom seemed to recognize me, or, at any rate, Marsi. He came forward with his hand out to assist me down. I gave him a cool nod. Once I was on the ground again, he took the reins and said, “You are expected, my lord.”

  I stood there, waiting until I felt like my legs would start working again, which took a couple of minutes. I spent it looking around the grounds as if I were just sort of vaguely curious.

  When I could move without embarrassing myself, I climbed the low stairway up to the door. I pulled on the rope, the low gong sounded within, and presently the door swung open.

  The same butler as before made the same bow as before. “Welcome, Lord Merss. His Lordship is expecting you.”

  We met in the same room, and I was offered the same chair. I took a different one, partly to be contrary, and partly because I was a little jumpy. The butler pretended not to notice. The Count gave me a sort of look, but let it pass.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” he said.

  “On the contrary,” I told him. “Thank you.”

  He smiled. “Brandy? Ale? Wine?”

  “Wine,” I said.

  He nodded at the butler, who went off to fetch the necessities.

  “So then,” said the Count, sitting back a little and folding his hands over his belly. “We have something in common.”

  “An enemy, it would seem.”

  He nodded, and the butler gave me my wine, and gave the Count a glass of the same amber liquid he’d had before. He lifted his, I did the same, we sipped. It was slightly sweeter than the last one had been, and agreeably spicy.

  “Okay, Boss. They’ve split up. I’m staying with him.”

  “All right.”

  “What I propose,” said the Count, “is simply this: that we share information. I suspect you know things that will help me track down who is behind the murders, and I am certain that I could give you information that would be of use to you.”

  I nodded. “That makes sense, and I’m inclined to agree.”

  “Inclined?”

  “There are some things I’d like to understand first, my lord, before I make any agreements.”

  “Such as?”

  I had some more wine and tried to figure out how to approach it. This was the tricky part.

  “Just what sort of information do you imagine I have, my lord?”

  “Eh? Well, it’s obvious you’ve been investigating on your own. Haven’t you found out anything?”

  “As to that,” I said. “Maybe. But, you know, I have no special skills in that field; I’ve simply been asking questions as anyone might.”

  “Indeed?” he said. From the expression in his voice, I couldn’t tell if he was just skeptical, or knew I was lying, and that is exactly what I needed to know.

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s what puzzles me about this. To be blunt: What help could I possibly give you?”

  “Well,” he said, and had another sip. He licked his lips. “That is a difficult question to answer.”

  I nodded and gave him some time, sipping wine and putting on my innocent inquiring look.

  “I guess,” he said, “that will require some background explanation.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’m listening.”

  “The mill was first founded by my grandfather, some eighty-three years ago.” He went on from there, but I wasn’t really paying attention.

  “Boss?”

  I wanted more wine because my mouth was dry, but the glass wasn’t in my hand, which was odd.

  “Boss?”

  And I couldn’t move my arm, either, and the Count’s voice was a buzzing in my ears, and the floor was very hard against my cheek.

  Part Four

  NOTONIDE

  While there remains some question because of its short duration, most natural philosophers now agree that the notonide should be considered an actual stage; yet it is a stage of constant transformation. It is here, accompanied by a ninety percent loss in mass, that the wings are formed, the venom glands develop, and the eggs are fertilized. This all happens in an astonishingly brief time: a few days at the most. Needless to say, during this entire stage the jhegaala is exceptionally vulnerable … .

  Two interesting and contradictory phenomena occur during this stage: To the right, the intense pressure of the constant transformation overwhelms the individual characteristics of the notonide, each reacting for the most part identically. And yet, as is the case with all organisms, it is never so much itself as when under intense pressure. Thus the future nature of this particular levidopt becomes apparent from the present notonide if one knows what to look for … .

  —Oscaani: Fauna of the Middle South: A Brief Survey,

  Volume 6, Chapter 18

  11

  BORAAN: My dear, have you ever wondered why it seems to go on so terribly long?

  LEFITT: It would hardly be punishment if it were short.

  BORAAN (glances at audience): Quite so.

  —Miersen, Six Parts Water

  Day Two, Act III, Scene 4

  Movement is meaningless without time. Movement, as an Athyra once explained to me, means that you’re either in two places at once, or to put it another way, at a certain instant, you both are and are not in one place. In that sense, I wasn’t moving, because there was no time, and I wasn’t anywhere at all. The odd part is that there was the sensation of movement; a rattling, jolting, rocking thing. But sometimes we cannot trust our perceptions.

  There was a damnable itch in the middle of my back, and a droning in my ears that wouldn’t go away. I wanted to scratch my back, but I couldn’t reach it.

  My hips and my back hurt.

  Horse, I thought. Been riding a damned horse. No wonder I hurt. I opened my eyes, but the droning kept going in my ears. I couldn’t figure out why the droning didn’t stop when I opened my eyes. After what seemed the longest time, I realized it was because my eyes weren’t really open. That made sense. I tried to work out if I were feeling sick to my stomach, but it required too much concentration and didn’t seem important anyway.

  The humming got louder, and someone was calling my name, and the humming got softer, and several someones were calling my name, in different tones, in different ways, and I felt not the least urge to answer any of them; all I wanted to do was open my eyes, because I knew that would make the humming stop. It isn’t that the humming was painful, it just wouldn’t stop, and I was getting annoyed.

  Then someone in a soft, almost melodious voice I didn’t recognize was asking me questions, and whoever it was seemed very friendly, and I’d have answered if the questions had made any sense. Then there was silence again except for the humming in my ears, and then more nonsense questions. It was only later—hours or days—that I was able to remember the questions and make some sort of sense out of them. “Who are you working for?” was the most frequent. And then there were lists of names that sounded like Fenarian noblemen, but I didn’t recognize any of them. And once he asked, “How had you planned to open the vault?,” which was enough for me to figure it out, later, when I could figure.

  You can learn a lot from the questions someone asks; it seems like I had made that observation not long before. In this case, it was easy to put together, once my mind was clear. Not that it helped, especially. At the time, I only realized that I couldn’t answer them because they made no sense and that I should try to explain that. I wanted to explain it. It was terribly frustrating that I couldn’t seem to find the right words.

  I know I threw up sometime in there, and I remember being pleased that my stomach felt better, although something about it seemed odd. And that damned humming in my ears wouldn’t go away, which was the worst of it. I mean, it wasn’t, but it was.

  Something grabbed my head, not especially gently, and there was water poured into my mouth. I dra
nk it, and noticed I was shivering. I wasn’t sick, I was just cold. Well, no problem. I’d cover myself up just as soon as I could find a blanket. Cawti’d probably stolen the damned blanket again. Well, no, because then she’d be warming me up, and if she were warming me up, the humming in my ears would stop, wouldn’t it? So where was she, anyway? Why wasn’t she here? She should be here to warm me up and stop the buzzing in my ears. I’d stop the buzzing in her ears if she needed me to.

  A child’s voice whispered, “I’m sorry,” and I have no idea what makes me think it was a child’s voice—how can you tell from a whisper? But I thought so at the time, and I wondered what she’d done. But the voice seemed to warm me, somehow, and I stopped shivering.

  “Boss?”

  “What the—”

  “Boss, don’t let them know you’re yourself!”

  “Let—”

  “Play dead!”

  Loiosh doesn’t sound peremptory very often, so when he does, I listen, and right then, when I was just becoming aware that I was just becoming aware, and had no idea how or what or where or like that, it seemed a good idea to listen to him, so I remained still.

  “What–?”

  “Boss, Rocza is hurt.”

  “How bad?”

  “I don’t know. She won’t tell me. She’s afraid if I think she’s hurt bad I’ll find a new mate.”

  “Is that what jhereg do?”

  “In the wild.”

  “Did you explain that you’re civilized?”

  “She doesn’t believe me.”

  “She doesn’t know you very well, does she?”

  “It’s sort of instinct.”

  “All right. Do what you can for her. Any idea what happened?”

  “That woman. She used a dart of some kind. Orbahn tried to get me, but I was expecting it.”

  “Expecting it.”

  “When they grabbed you, Boss. As soon as they grabbed you—”

  “Who grabbed me?”

  Fortunately, I had some time right then. Loiosh explained as best he could what had been going on, and gradually my memory kicked in, bringing me up to the point I’ve already brought you. After that, I hope you’re confused about what happened, because if not I haven’t explained it well.

  By that time, I knew that I was naked, on my back, blindfolded, and couldn’t move my arms or my legs. It seemed very likely that, whoever had me, they were planning to do unpleasant things to me. That had happened once before, and I hadn’t done well with it, during or after. It was something, even now, my memory shied away from. Had I learned anything last time that might be useful this time? Not really, no. I knew that the anticipation was part of it—they wanted me to be afraid, to work on myself; and my memory of what had happened before was making it easier on them. I knew that.

  It was astonishing how little it helped that I knew that.

  Loiosh and I continued talking; he filled me in on the details of the attack, and said hopefully that he thought Rocza wasn’t hurt too badly, and we talked about how thoroughly we had been set up, and I made some amusing—in intent, anyway—remarks about how they could have done it better. In short, he kept me occupied while I waited for something to happen.

  Loiosh, still being hopeful, suggested that, if they hadn’t done anything terrible to me by now, maybe they weren’t going to.

  By now?

  “Loiosh, how long has it been?”

  “Three days, Boss.”

  “Three—Loiosh, what have I been doing for three days?”

  “I don’t know, Boss! I couldn’t tell!” If he were human, it would have sounded like he was on the verge of tears.

  “All right, chum. Take it easy. We’ll get out of this. The drugs have worn off. I can think now.” Loiosh kept whatever wisecrack that might have generated to himself.

  I was beginning to be able to see, and more important, my mind was clear enough to realize that I’d been drugged. My inquisitor wore a gray hood over his face; I couldn’t help but wonder if he was trying to conceal his features or if he was just doing it for effect. Other than that, I had the impression that the room I was in was something like a larder, or small storage room of some kind. In any case it was small, not too much bigger than it had to be to hold the table I was strapped to. I was strapped in pretty well, by the way, and the table was solid.

  The man peered out at me from under his hood and said, “As you no doubt are aware by now, your familiars are no more.”

  “Hear that, Loiosh? You are no more.”

  “True, Boss. I’m no less, either.”

  “Funny guy.”

  “I have been asked to get information from you. You will tell me what I want to know. How much screaming you do before you give the information is up to you.”

  I cleared my throat, wondering if I could talk. “You could just ask. I’ve been known to be cooperative.”

  “Oh, I’ll try that first. But if I don’t like the answers I get, I will hurt you. I will cause you pain. If that doesn’t work, then let me remind you that you have ten fingers, ten toes, two eyes, two ears, and various other bits and pieces that can be treated individually. Also remember that I don’t much care what condition you’re in when I’m done.”

  “If you’re trying to scare me,” I said, “it’s working.”

  “I can do a great deal more than scare you.”

  Where do they get this stuff? “Um, if I thought all you could do was scare me, you couldn’t scare me, if you see what I mean.”

  “We’ll see how funny you are in a little while.”

  I was mildly curious about that myself.

  Then and then and now.

  Then, it was all about the moment; each instant a transition from terror to its realization, almost as a relief; and then back. But each isolated, unique, individual.

  Then it was sharp as a knife, clear as the sky in the East, distinct as the face of a loved one. Each event was pure and moments flowed together like a river, where no droplet has meaning save as part of those around it, and the entirety moving according to its own logic, regardless of what pieces of driftwood may be caught in a momentary eddy.

  Now it is what memory has left. A single strip of cloth implies the garment from which it was torn, but yet I cannot, from a few dirty pieces, give you the cut and the fit and the blend of colors. The implication must remain implication, because memory preserves, and it protects, and in doing so picks for its own reasons, so if now I give you tattered rags, it is because they are what remain to me. You may regret this; I do not.

  “Who are you working for?”

  Blinding, impossible brilliance washing over me.

  “What was your mission?”

  High in an upper corner of the room was a spider, too small for me to see clearly, but her web grew as I watched, lines forming in patterns that reminded me of something I’d seen once, something associated with vast quantities of water. I tried to remember what it was. Spiders are by nature very patient. The flow of moments means nothing to them.

  “Who do you report to?”

  The room fading in and out, in and out, trying to focus on the spiderweb, annoyed that it kept vanishing into a pale haze.

  “How is Rocza?”

  “Snappy and bad-tempered, Boss.”

  “Is that a good sign?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Are you working for the Empire?”

  “No,” I said. I remember that. I said, “No.”

  “Very well. I will accept that provisionally, though I don’t really believe you. But I’ll give you a chance. Who are you working for?”

  “I’m not working for anyone,” I said. “I came here looking for my family.”

  “No, no,” he said. “That won’t do at all.”

  “Sorry,” I said; and honestly, I was.

  And fractured pieces of the spiderweb fluttered about inside my head, and I know it is impossible to grind your teeth when your mouth is wide open; why is it that I remember doing
so?

  Islands of calm in a sea of pain, a sky of fear covering all.

  I know there were times when I was myself. I don’t know who I was the rest of the time, and I’m glad of that.

  “We know what you are doing here, we just aren’t certain who you’re doing it for.”

  “Well, all right. I’ll be happy to say whatever you’d like, you know. If you give me a name—”

  “Don’t play with us, Lord Merss, or whoever you are.”

  I didn’t answer that.

  “Would you like some water, Lord Merss?”

  “I don’t know. Drugged, or undrugged?”

  “Oh, undrugged. I wish your mental faculties to be at their sharpest.”

  “Then I’d be delighted.”

  He held my head carefully as I drank; his eyes were brown, and actually seemed rather friendly, even kind. Shows how reliable eyes are, I guess. He put ice on the inside of my forearms; I’m not sure what that was supposed to do. It felt nice, though.

  He gave me a few minutes, I guess to think things over.

  “All right,” he said. “Now, let us consider this. You are working either for the Empire, or for a private entrepreneur. In the latter case, it is a question of money. In the former, it could be loyalty. If it is money, how much pain is the money worth, not to mention being unable to spend it? In the latter, would the Empress truly wish you to endure great pain for what must be a minor project for her?”

  He had a point. Well, if I said it was an individual, he’d want a name, and I didn’t have a good name to give him. “All right,” I said. “It’s the Empire.”

  He smiled. “Good,” he said. “Who do you report to?”

  I don’t remember what I said, then, or the next questions, but eventually he must have tripped me up, because I remember him saying, “Why would you lie about something like that? I admit it, you are puzzling me.”

  “I’ll take my satisfaction in that, I guess.”

  And—days? Hours? Years?

  What’s time to a kethna? Sorry, private joke. In any case, call it a blank space of some duration.

  I leaned against the back wall of a little room, massaging my wrists and studying the chain on my ankles, and where it was connected to the floor. It was a wooden floor; there ought to be a way to pry that connection out, if they’d leave me alone for a while. I felt weak—most likely lack of food—but I thought I could still do it.