by Steven Brust
The old man stared up at the warlock for some few moments, as if startled by his exceptional height. The traveler was used to this, however, and merely waited for the inspection to be completed. Eventually it was, and the old man said, "You wish for a room for tonight?"
"You have said it exactly. So well, in fact, that I cannot improve upon it. I wish for a room for tonight."
"It chances that we do have one. Fourteen fennick for the night, which includes one meal and a bath."
"That does not sound too expensive, only—"
"Yes?"
"What is a fennick?"
"Ah. What currency have you?"
"I? I have the coinage of Esania."
"Well, that is perfectly good coinage, and in those coins, we would we ask nine pennies, and we will add a breakfast to make up the difference."
"I see. Yes, that is most fair, and I should be glad to take the room on those terms."
"Well then, young man, it is yours, for as long as you wish. Climb the stairs, and it is the doorway on the right."
The traveler carefully counted out nine pennies, then made his way up the stairs and, finding the room with no more trouble than one might suppose after hearing the simple directions, let himself into it. He looked around and noted with pleasure that the bedding appeared to have no holes through which straw could emerge, and that, moreover, the room possessed both a chair and a window. He set his satchel on the floor, and studied the view from the window. As there was little of interest to him, and less of interest to the reader, we will forbear to describe the scene upon which he looked, and merely follow him as he left his room in order to have, as he thought, a brief walk through the town before retiring for the evening and continuing his journey in the morning.
He came down the stairs, then, and turned up the narrow street to see if he might find a public house where he could take a glass of wine and meet a few of the local denizens. It took him some time to locate it, because it was a small house unadorned with any sign or indication of its nature, but at length he happened to notice that it was uncommonly busy for a simple home and asked a passerby, who confirmed his deduction.
Upon entering, the young warlock observed a single room, well lit by hanging lamps. There were a few hard wooden chairs scattered about, but most of the patrons were standing in groups of four or five drinking beer or wine. Discovering that he felt suddenly uncomfortable, the traveler made his way to a corner that appeared to be more-or-less deserted, and which, moreover, contained an unoccupied chair. This chair, we should say, was next to a small round table, which table contained a head full of dark, curly hair, which head was attached to a body that occupied the table's other chair. Presuming that this other individual was in no condition to object to company, the traveler at once seated himself, and set about considering how to acquire for himself something to drink.
Several moments passed, during which our friend became acclimated to the warmth of the room, and the atmosphere, in which humanity commingled with stale wine and the sweet harshness of burning tobacco leaves, inhaled for their mild euphoric effect by many of the patrons. Eventually, a portly woman carrying a tray full of glasses came by, and, before the young man could speak, set down before him a mug of wine that was so dark as to be almost black. He accepted it in the spirit of inquiry, and paid for it with a coin that the hostess looked at carefully before accepting. She hurried on, and he tasted the wine, finding it to be very dry and acidic. Though hardly a connoisseur, he did have something of a palate, and winced slightly at the taste.
"You should," said someone, "have asked for the reserve. It costs only a little more, and is not nearly so harsh, with a not unpleasant peppery aftertaste. Or, better yet, the brandy, which, while falling short of excellent, has the virtue of quickly causing the drinker to stop caring about such niceties as taste." We should explain that brandy is what the Easterners call that class of wine which is distilled after being fermented; that they have a special name for this drink may, indeed, give us several significant clues about the Eastern culture, but now would not be the time for this discussion, interesting though it might be.
It took the traveler a moment to identify the speaker, but eventually he realized that it was none other than his companion at the table, whom he had taken to be asleep. Though this individual had not moved, his eyes were open, and he gave no appearance of intoxication; nor did he slur his speech, though he spoke Olakiska, the language of the district, with an odd rhythm, rather like a horse about to jump an obstacle, then suddenly stopping and reconsidering the affair, and continuing in this manner throughout the length of the sentence.
Notwithstanding the odd speech, which meant only that the speaker was, like so many others, not native to the region, the traveler replied politely, saying, "I thank you for your advice, and will avail myself of it the next time our good hostess passes by."
"You are most welcome," said the other, still not moving. "Might I inquire as to your name?"
"You may, indeed, inquire, but, alas, I cannot tell you."
"How, you cannot tell me?"
"I'm afraid that I cannot."
"You will pardon me if I find that singular."
"Well," said the traveler, "there is an explanation."
"Ah, well, that is less astonishing. And will you give me this explanation?"
"Certainly, and this is it, then: I cannot tell you my name, because I am traveling to find it."
We should note that, during this entire conversation, our friend's companion had not stirred from his position of resting his head upon his arm, and his arm upon the table. Upon hearing this, however, he lifted his head, showing a trim mustache, a few strands of hair upon a strong chin, a thin, narrow face with deep-set eyes, and a small mouth, all of which were framed, as it were, by masses of curly black hair tumbling down to his shoulders. He then said, "Ah. I comprehend."
"How, you comprehend?"
"Yes. You are training in the arts of the warlock."
"You have understood me exactly."
"That is hardly surprising; I have been acquainted with warlocks before. My name is Miska."
"How do you do, Miska?"
"I am, to my deep regret, entirely sober. This is because I do not have sufficient coinage to remedy the condition. If you would be good enough to buy me a drink, I will repay you by giving you a name."
"As to giving me a name, well, that may not be as simple as you pretend. Yet I will gladly buy you a drink nevertheless."
"Splendid. You are an amiable fellow, and I believe I like you." Miska then turned his head and called, in voice that carried throughout the room, "Two brandies, my good woman!"
The traveler, who, in fact, would have preferred the reserve wine, decided not to say anything, and soon enough two small glasses of brandy appeared before them, for which the warlock-in-training cheerfully paid. He then sipped his, winced again, and set his glass down; Miska, for his part, drained his glass in one long swallow, his head thrown back, then set the glass down on the table with a hard crack. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and said, "Your name is Dark Star."
"Dark Star?"
Miska nodded.
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Yes, why is that my name?"
Miska looked at him, and it seemed to the young warlock that the other's black, black eyes were seeing deeply into him, and he said, "Because in the land of Faerie all the stars are dark, but you will be the darkest You will give light, but few will know it. Your rod will be black, your home will be darkness, but you will shine. You will be the Dark Star of Faerie."
"I will go to the land of Faerie?"
"You will."
"Dark Star."
"Yes. Or, in my own language, Sötétcsilleg."
"I do not believe I could pronounce that."
"Do you speak the language of the Silatan? In that language, it would be Morrolan."
"That is not one I speak."
"Then, in the language of
Faerie—"
"But I am able to pronounce it."
"Let us hear you."
"Morrolan."
"Well, there you have it. Your quest is complete. What will you do now, Dark Star?"
"What will I do now?"
"Yes, my friend Sötétcsilleg. Your quest is complete. Will you now return to your home?"
"Oh, but I had more to do than merely acquire a name."
"Ah, more?"
"Oh, yes, indeed. In fact, that was to happen near the end."
"Well, what else have you do, Morrolan? Perhaps we will dispatch those tasks as easily."
"What else have I to do?"
"Yes, yes. Come Dark Star. Tell me your tasks and we will consider them together. After all, you have bought me a drink."
"And you have given me a name."
"Then it may be that we have the beginning of a fine partnership. Or, perhaps, a legendary friendship. At all events, come. Let us hear what you have to do."
"Well, in addition to a name, I am to find a holy artifact, and a place of power, and a kindred soul. Ah!"
"Excuse me, you say, 'ah.'"
"Well, and, if I do?"
"It would seem that, to say 'ah' in that tone of voice, my dear Sötétcsilleg, would indicate that something has occurred to you."
"Well, in fact, something has occurred to me."
"And that is?"
"Well, it is this: Perhaps you, my good Miska, are my kindred soul."
"Alas, good Morrolan, it seems unlikely."
"How, unlikely?"
"Yes."
"But why?"
"Because I am only a coachman."
"Well, and if you are?"
"The kindred soul for whom you search is someone with whom you can make many journeys, and, in each one, you will grow closer together. As for me, well, once you have completed this journey, my work will be done."
Morrolan considered this in silence, at something of a loss for how to respond. At last he said, "Would you care for another brandy?"
"If we are not kindred spirits, Dark Star," said Miska, "at least, it seems to me, we understand one another, and that is not so little."
Morrolan acquired more brandy for Miska, and a glass of the reserve for himself; we should add that, as Miska had promised, this wine was a noticeable improvement over either of the other drinks. Miska, for his part, seemed content to sip his brandy on this occasion, rather than quaffing it as he had the first glass.
Morrolan watched the other for a moment, wondering at the whims of fate and fortune that bring people together, and said, "How is it you come to be in Blackchapel, Miska? For it is clear that you are not from here; and are, in fact, Fenarian, if I do not mistake your accent."
"I am of all places and all times," said Miska. "At least, when I am drunk. When I am sober, yes, I am Fenarian, and was most recently employed by a nobleman of that land, who took an excursion to visit the Lake Nivaper in order to fish and to swim. He failed to catch any fish and so for reasons best known to himself he chose to get drowned, leaving me in a foreign country without employment." Miska then belched prodigiously and swallowed about half of his drink. "I decided, then, to come here because I have been here before and fancy their brandy."
"So you are, then, waiting for something to come along?"
"Something always does, my dear Sötétcsilleg, in a day or a year or a hundred years."
"A hundred years is too long for me, good Miska; I doubt I shall live that long."
Miska gave him a quick glance, but made no other reply.
Morrolan said, "You have, then, his coach?"
Miska shook his head. "I gave it into the care of the servants who came to look for his body."
"And so, you must use your feet to return?"
"Yes, my good Morrolan, if I return."
"Ah, then you may not return?"
"It is possible that I won't return, or that my return will be delayed. There is nothing waiting for me there."
"And so?"
"And so, I drink. I drink, and I wait to see what is in the cup fate sets before me. It is not a bad life, Dark Star. You do the same, only—"
"Yes? Only?"
"Only you are unaware of it."
"Perhaps you are right. Then, you believe that some fate or destiny has caused us to meet?"
Miska shrugged. "Who can say?" He drained his glass, then, and stood up suddenly, appearing perhaps a bit unstable on his feet, but he said, "Come. Let us continue your quest."
"What, this very instant?"
"Why not?" said the coachman.
* * * *
*I know that "bungalow" implies a single-story dwelling, but it is also the only possible translation for the Northwestern "tyuk-kö," which is what the original mss uses. Take it up with Paarfi.—SB
Chapter the Second
How Morrolan Met Someone
Who Was Not, in Fact, a Goddess
Morrolan nodded and stood, leaving his wine unfinished, taken by a sudden desire to move forward in his mission. "Yes, let us do so, then," he said, and followed the coachman out of the house and into the street. The air was dear and bracing after the closeness of the public house, and very dark, as this Eastern village had not yet found a way to light its streets, so the only light came from that which spilled, as it were, out of a few windows behind which lamps or tapers were burning.
As they stepped out, they were greeted by someone who said, "A very pleasant day to you, sir. I see that you found a room."
"Why, yes," said Morrolan. "And I thank you, sir, for your assistance earlier." We need hardly add that the irony of Morrolan's statement was lost on Erik, for, of course, it was he who had spoken.
"Good evening to you, Erik," said Miska. "I hope the night finds you well."
"Why, as it chances, it does," said Erik. "And I hope the very same to you, uh…"
"Miska," prompted the coachman.
"Yes, Miska," said Erik. "That is right," as if Miska required reassurance. "Are you two off to visit the goddess?"
"Goddess?" said Morrolan. "I was unaware that a goddess had taken up residence here."
"How, you were unaware of this fact?"
"Entirely, I assure you."
Miska said, "Tell me, my dear Erik, when this goddess arrived."
"Oh, as to that, I have not the least idea in the world. But I know she is here, for I saw her not five minutes ago near the chapel."
"That," said Miska, "is a good place to find a goddess."
"Why, do you know, that thought had not occurred to me."
"Well."
At this, Erik smiled and continued on his way.
"A goddess?" said Morrolan.
"I hardly think so," said Miska. "Were it, in fact, a goddess, the good Erik would have identified her as something else entirely."
"Ah," said Morrolan.
"Nevertheless," said Miska, "I see no reason not to walk over to the chapel and make our observations."
"Yes, let us do so."
This decided, they set off, Miska leading through one or two turns of the little streets of Blackchapel, until they came to the place for which the village was named. The original Blackchapel, was, in fact, no more than a large black rock of the type the wizards call sparkstone, which, coming to the height of an Easterner's chest, was peculiarly flat on the top, giving the appearance of a high table, or altar, and stretching out some five feet in length, and perhaps three or four in depth. Upon its discovery, somewhere far back in prehistory, it became, quite naturally, a place where the Easterners would gather to practice their primitive rites. At times the altar was open to the sky, at other times it was covered by some structure or another.
The most recent form of the temple had come to be several hundred years before, when a priest of the Three Sisters, who were much worshiped in the East, caused to be built a small temple around it, made of sparkstone, obsidian, pumice, and other black stones that could be found in the district, from which the village soon gain
ed its name. There were two large stone doors to the chapel, also black, which would have been difficult to open were they, in fact, ever closed; but by custom they remained open at all times, and it was at these doors that our friends at length arrived.
Upon entering the chapel, which was lit by half a dozen torches evenly spaced upon the wall to the left and the right, and which emitted thick, oily smoke that blended into the dark walls and ceiling, they at once saw a figure standing at the altar, facing them.
"Well," remarked Miska quietly. "Erik was closer to the truth than I'd have thought."
This comment was drawn from Miska by the sight of the individual who stood at the altar, and was, perhaps, more of a comment on Mike's taste in female beauty than in any attribute of this person. On the other hand, we cannot but admit that "beauty" as the concept might apply to an Easterner is not something of which this historian could claim to have any knowledge or appreciation—indeed, it is obvious that such an abstraction as "beauty" is hardly meaningful except within a species. This said, however, it does not mean that the historian can abnegate his duty of sketching, however briefly, every new person who brings himself to the reader's attention, and with whom the reader will be expected to spend some time. This description may appear before the individual appears, as the individual appears, or even, in some cases, after the reader has come to know the individual more or less well; but appear it must, and so, the time being so convenient, we will pause now to say two words about the woman who faced our friends from across the altar of Blackchapel.
She was, then, small, even by Eastern standards, slight, with dark hair around a narrow face dominated by large, bright eyes, and she wore a plain black garment, rather like a robe, save that it was belted at the waist and fit rather snugly, and, as that was all our friends could see as they entered, it will have to do for our initial sketch.
