by Steven Brust
A pretty little maid at once opened the door, inquiring as to what His Lordship might wish.
"I am Khaavren of Castle Rock, Count of Whitecrest by courtesy, and, if it is convenient, I should wish to wait upon your master, your mistress, or both. If it is not convenient, then I should desire an appointment."
"Yes, my lord. If you will do us the honor to step into the waiting room, I will convey your message at once."
After only a short wait, Khaavren was led into a comfortable sitting room, or perhaps a library, as there was no shortage of books on shelves along the walls, these books being the only decoration save for a sword of indifferent quality that was hung by a pair of wires. And in this room were both the master and the mistress of the house, both dressed casually; the one in Dzur black, the other in green and white. They bowed to Khaavren respectfully, although with a hint of coldness, and asked if he would care to sit.
With a certain aspect of ceremony, Khaavren unbuckled his sword belt and leaned it against a wall before returning to the middle of the room, bowing carefully to each of his hosts, and saying, "I believe I shall stand."
"As you wish," said Shant, the Dzurlord.
"May I offer you wine?" asked Lewchin. "I have some of your esteemed namesake, and it is a tolerably old date. Or we may have klava brought to us; here we brew it exceptionally strong, and have plenty of honey."
"Thank you for you kindness, madam, but I require no refreshment, only conversation, if you would be so agreeable."
"Certainly, sir," said Shant. "We are entirely at your service."
"Upon what subject, sir," inquired Lewchin, "does Your Lordship wish conversation?"
The words "you know perfectly well" reached almost to Khaavren's lips, where they were stopped, pushed back, and swallowed, perhaps in part by the elegance of the courtesy with which he had been addressed. Instead he said, with a certain abruptness, "Where is my son?"
There was a silence—hardly less awkward for being brief—at the end of which, Lewchin said, "My lord, are you entirely certain you would not care to sit?"
Khaavren clenched his jaw. His position, to be sure, was difficult; while he had never forbidden his son to see these two, and had known they were close, he had never approved of their arrangement: Dzur and Issola living together as husband and wife. Indeed, it seemed likely to Khaavren that it was their example, more than any other factor, that had led Piro to not only fall in love with a girl of another House, but believe that he might marry her. All of this was true, and yet, it was also true that he was here as a guest.
In the end, he compromised: sitting on the edge of his chair, his back upright. Shant and Lewchin, on the other hand, sat fully in their own chairs—quite comfortable leather padded with some resilient material on the arms as well as the seat—in a way that struck Khaavren as just on the right side of insolence. It flashed through his mind how he would treat these two if they were guardsmen under his command; after which he brought his attention back to the present moment.
"Very well," said Khaavren. "I am sitting. May I do myself the honor of putting my question a second time?"
"Instead," said Lewchin, "perhaps you would do us the honor of permitting us to put a question to you?"
Unspoken at the end of this remark was the observation "as you are in our home." Khaavren heard it, and, though far from delighted, found himself unable to offer a good reason to decline, wherefore he nodded. "Very well, then. That is but just. What is your question?"
"It is simply this: Why ought we to tell you?"
"What is that?" said Khaavren, turning pale and his voice sounding rather hoarse in his own ears.
"My lord," said Shant, "you perceive that we do not deny that our friend Piro has communicated with us. Indeed, he has, and on more than one occasion. And it is obvious from the very fact that you ask your question that he has not told you where he is. It therefore seems plain that he does not want you to know. Why, then, ought we to break a confidence with which he did us the honor to trust us?"
"He is, then, alive?"
Lewchin, whose manner, as we have said, had been somewhat cold—indeed, remarkably cold for an Issola—softened her expression and said, "Yes, my lord. There is no harm in telling you that he is alive, and in good health when last he wrote to us, which was this Marketday week."
Khaavren bowed his head in thanks for this intelligence, then, raising it once more, said, "To answer the question you did me the honor to ask: In the first place, I should point out that I am his father."
Shant and Lewchin nodded—which nod gave very nearly the impression of a shrug.
"Moreover," continued Khaavren, "well, I wish to speak to him."
"It is possible," said Shant, "that he has less interest in speaking to you. I say this only because he has not done so. It is true that, hitherto, neither have you; yet surely you must see that I cannot take it upon myself to make this decision for him. It would not be the act of a friend. You must, sir, see how impossible your request is." It occurred to Khaavren that somewhere during the course of the conversation he had lost the moral advantage—if, indeed, he had ever held it. "I should very much like," he said, after reflecting for a moment, "to learn from him if what you say is true."
"And if it is," said Shant. "Will you respect his wishes in this matter?"
"No," said Khaavren.
"Well," said Shant, and this time he did shrug.
Khaavren felt himself trembling with anger, so that he had to fight to master it.
"He is my son!" cried Khaavren.
"He is our friend," said Shant coolly.
"Come sir," said Lewchin. "Would you not do as much for a friend of yours, should he ask?"
"A friend of mine would not—" He broke off, aware that, should he bring the sentence to its conclusion, he could do his cause no good.
"Do what?" said Shant, a light growing in his eye.
Khaavren matched his glare. "Do not seek to provoke me, young Dzur. I promise you that nothing good could come of any games played between us."
"And why not? I have not fought in—how long?"
"Twelve weeks," said Lewchin. "And you should not fight now."
"And yet—"
"How do you suppose," continued Lewchin, "Piro would feel to know that you and his father had slaughtered one another? Can you explain to me what good would come of such a course?"
Khaavren bowed his head. "Exactly my own thoughts, madam."
"Well," said Lewchin.
"You are right," said Shant, sighing as with regret.
"So then, sir," continued Lewchin, "if there is no more to say—"
"Please," said Khaavren.
Lewchin looked down. "I am sorry. In all conscience, I cannot. He has trusted us. To do as you ask would be nothing less than a betrayal."
Khaavren frowned. "Well, can you at least tell him that I wish to speak to him?"
Lewchin nodded slowly. "Very well. That, at least, I can do."
"At the earliest moment," added Shant.
Khaavren rose to his feet, bowed stiffly to each of them, and picked up his sword belt, although he did not strap it on until he was outside of the house. There he mounted his horse once more, and slowly rode through Adrilankha, pulling his heavy woolen cloak more tightly about himself.
Instead of returning to Whitecrest Manor, however, he turned onto Canal Road, and so came, after a short ride, to the Canal Inn, where he found a quiet table and ordered klava. The host explained that his establishment did not serve this most estimable brew, but a few coins convinced him to send a boy down the street and return quickly with a steaming glass, embellished exactly to the Tiassa's specifications—which was done the more readily as Khaavren was the only nobleman there, and the first to pass its doors in more than a year, wherefore the host hoped to encourage such custom.
Khaavren sat in a corner and drank his klava, and, when it was done, ordered another, which was supplied with, if anything, even greater promptness and precision tha
n the first. By the time Khaavren had finished his second glass, he was ready to order a lunch, which he did, partaking of a bowl of the inn's lamb stew accompanied by thick-crusted bread and a glass of wine. He ate his lunch slowly, not so much in order to savor it (although, in fact, it was a most respectable stew, as such stews go) as to make the time pass.
In this way he was rewarded, because the inn's servant had hardly cleared away the bowl and received the order for a second glass of wine before Khaavren was joined at his table.
"I wish you a pleasant morning, Pel."
"Morning? It is after noon, my friend."
"Is it? Well, so much the worse; there is half a day wasted."
Pel gave him the smile that only Pel, or perhaps another Yendi, was capable of giving. "I would not say it was wasted, my friend."
Khaavren looked up. "You have put the day to good use?"
"Certainly. Even very good use."
"Then you have—"
"Made a discovery."
"How, so soon?"
"Why else do you imagine I am here?"
"I had no idea. For my part, my errand failed entirely."
"I think not entirely."
"No, that is true; it occurred to me to request of them to ask Piro if he would consent to let me know his whereabouts."
"Would you consider it boastful, my friend, if I were to say I had guessed it would come to that?"
"Not in the least, Pel. You know me, perhaps, better than I know myself."
"Exactly. I not only guessed it would come to that, but—"
"Well, what else?"
"I thought to use that knowledge."
"But, in what way did you use it?"
"In a way that you would not have approved if I had told you ahead of time I planned to."
"You must understand, Pel, that I do not at all understand what you do me the honor to tell me."
"Then permit me to simply relate my history, and then, well, you will understand everything."
"Very good, I will be as mute as an Ekrasanite."
"That is best, believe me. So then, you had not been gone half an hour before the maid-servant left, evidently on an errand. Apropos, did you notice that she is a very pretty girl?"
"How, you were there?"
"Outside of the house, yes, while you had your interview."
"But… well, go on, my friend, go on. Where did this maid-servant go?"
"Where else, but to the posting house on Settled Way, near Nine Stones."
"Ah, ah! She was posting a letter!"
"Certainly. And the proof was, it was in her hand as she walked."
"Posting it for her master or her mistress?"
"So we can assume."
"To Piro!" cried Khaavren, understanding of Pel's ploy coming to him at last.
"That is very nearly a certainty."
"So then, what did you do?"
"What did I do? Well, I followed the girl."
"Yes, and?"
"And then I became lost."
"You, lost?"
"Certainly. You know that I have only lived in Adrilankha this last year, and have never been in this part of the city."
"Well, but what did you do?"
"What anyone would do when lost: I asked for help."
"Of whom?"
"Of Macska, of course."
"Macska?"
"The pretty maid-servant."
"Ah, ah! And was she able to help you out of your plight?"
"Oh, she had not the least difficulty. She pointed out exactly the turns I needed to make in order to get to my destination."
"And what destination was that?"
"Why, this charming little inn where we now find ourselves."
"Of course. Well, so she was able to direct you?"
"It required a certain amount of gesturing and pointing."
"And, during this gesturing and pointing?"
"Why I just happened to get a glimpse of the address."
"Ah, you are remarkable."
"And I got more than that."
"What, more?"
"Yes. I got a promise from Macska to permit me to show her an evening's entertainment."
"What? You, Pel, with a Teckla?"
"I give you my word, I have no intention of marrying her."
"Nevertheless—"
"But do you wish to hear the address?"
"Indeed, I wish it more than anything else."
"The letter was addressed to a certain Kékróka, in care of the Deepwell Inn, Mistyvale County."
"So then, it wasn't to Piro!" cried Khaavren.
"Ah, my friend. Do not be naive. Do you think it probable that your son is having letters sent to him in his own name?"
"Ah, that is true!"
"And then?"
"Pel, you continue to astonish me. I tell you so. And you are right, had you told me what you were planning, well, I should certainly not have approved."
"But now that it is done?"
"Well, I do not know about approving, nor do I know what our friend Aerich would say, but I cannot help but use the information you have provided. And, moreover—"
"Yes?"
"Now I understand why you had such confidence we would learn where he was by to-morrow."
"And so?"
"I am in your debt once more."
The Yendi bowed and said, "Well, it now but remains to collect our friends, and to learn where Mistyvale County is, and, well, we are on our way."
"Our friends did not anticipate our setting out before to-morrow at the earliest."
"Perhaps, but I believe they will be ready in any case."
"So then?"
"Are you packed, my good Khaavren?"
"I have everything I need with me. And you?"
"Oh, you know that I am always ready to travel on short notice, or no notice whatsoever."
"Then I will pay the shot, and we will be on our way."
"Will you finish your wine first?"
Khaavren shrugged and, still holding his wine, signaled the host, who scrupulously calculated what was owed him. Khaavren paid it and thanked the host for the service he had received, which was both prompt and cheerful. The host was delighted, and assured Khaavren that, should he ever grace his house again, there would be klava.
Khaavren tipped his hat, his host, and his wine-glass, after which he followed Pel out the door.
Chapter
the Seventy-Sixth
how matters transpired at the deepwell inn
Mistyvale County—that is to say, the Mistyvale County between Adrilankha and the Shallow Sea, as opposed to one of the other three—took its name less from any romantic notions engendered by this name (though no doubt the name is, indeed, tolerably romantic) than from simple observation. It is one of the handful of counties nestled between Southmoor and Bra-Moor, south of the Collier Hills, and twenty-five or thirty leagues west and north of Aerich's home of Brachington's Moor. The entire region is hills and valleys, with the Adrilankha River cutting through them like an orange ribbon; most of the hills being grass-covered, but some showing only bare rock. The hills and valleys are all modest, even compared to the Collier Hills, but, perhaps because of the ubiquitous river, or perhaps because of some strange effect generated by its hills, the valleys are filled with a thick carpet of fog nearly every morning. Perhaps the most striking effect of this fog is that the district has nearly as many stories about it as the Kanefthali Mountains or the desert of Suntra; indeed, Dewers's famous Tales of the Landlocked Harbor are set there, and many of the landmarks referred to in his tales of supernatural wonder are in fact real (although, to be sure, the events he described seem to come from his own fertile imagination).
Numerous roads crisscross Mistyvale County: from Riverwall to Steps, from Brambles to Crossway, from Nacine to Gridley, from Hillcrest to Ripples, from Lottstown to Gorge. Moreover, these roads have not been carefully named; to be sure there is the Gridley Road, and the Lottstown Road, but there are three dist
inct roads called Hillcrest Pike and two that are known generally as the Brambles Road, so traveling in the region was problematical for a stranger, especially since the Disaster, as the various signs and markers had fallen apart and not been repaired; yet, even during the height of the Interregnum these roads had been used, as there continued to be a certain amount of trade in coal and ore even with the refineries long closed and abandoned.
Inns and taverns were built, flourished, and died with a brutal regularity along these roads, the average lifespan before the Disaster being only a few hundred years, and during the Interregnum perhaps a few score. Of course, there were exceptions: the Feathers, in Brambles, has been in existence for at least six thousands of years, and the Pins, between Crossway and Hillcrest, has been in existence for so long that this historian cannot learn its origins (and does not care to accept the word of its present owners). Another exception, to be found on the Hillcrest Pike not far from Deepwell, is the Deepwell Inn, which claims its date of origin as the Fifteenth Tsalmoth Reign—certainly long enough ago to be respectable by any standards.
The Deepwell was a narrow, two-story building—indeed, it had been built to have three stories, but it had been constructed so well, of stone reinforced with iron braces driven into the stone, that, over the millennia, it sank into the ground rather than falling apart, and several hundreds of years ago the owners had been obliged to tear out the bed-rooms and create a jug-room from them. As a result, it had one upper story of bed-rooms to let; the main floor which held the jug-room; kitchen, pantry, and storage below; and additional storage yet further below, in what had been the original basement and wine-cellar. The main floor had two windows looking out from the jug-room, one looking west and the other north, and two doors, one opening to the west and the other to the east. In addition, it had a third door, which opened from the kitchen, below the ground, and into a tunnel that went south and emerged in the stables.
