by Steven Brust
He blinked. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”
“What’s the short version?”
“There’s no way to tell for sure, but it is possible that your weapon was able to take her soul because of the spell she cast at you.”
“Well.” I swallowed. “That’s wonderful.”
Daymar slowly rose, until he was floating, cross-legged, a foot or so off the ground again.
“Feeling better?” I asked.
He nodded.
I let out a long, slow breath. “Okay. Where was I?”
“You were just using a Morganti weapon on a sorceress.”
“Yeah, I guess I was.”
“Well, Boss, you could explain that you didn’t really mean it.”
“Now isn’t the time, Loiosh.”
“Sorry.”
“What you said about asking her not to . . .”
“Yes?”
“How do I do that?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know. I’m told it can be done, but—”
“Okay. So this . . . what was her name?”
“Crithnak.”
“Yeah. This Crithnak wants to kill me because I killed her sister.”
“Because you destroyed her soul.”
I shuddered. “Okay. And she tried to locate me?”
“Yes. It was very difficult to block.”
“How was she doing it?”
“Pretty much, pure psychic energy.”
“Oh. I thought there wasn’t anyone as good as you at that.”
“That’s what I thought too.”
“Did it hurt your feelings?”
“A little.”
I sighed. “Okay, now what?”
“Hmmm?”
“Sorry, was mostly talking to myself. Uh, thanks for all your help.”
“Of course.”
“May I buy you a drink?”
He shook his head. “I think I’ll be heading back home.”
I nodded. “Where do you live, anyway?”
“Hmmm? Loiosh knows.”
“Yes, you told him, but he’s never told me.”
Daymar laughed, which didn’t happen often. Then he vanished, leaving me to contemplate many things.
I drew Lady Teldra and studied the elegant lines of the slim, dark blade. “Did you really do that?” I asked her. She didn’t answer.
I put her back in the sheath. Loiosh nuzzled my neck.
She had destroyed someone’s soul.
No, I had destroyed someone’s soul. It wasn’t the first time, but the other times I’d been paid a whole lot of money, and had reason to believe it was justified, at least by the standards of the Jhereg.
This was different.
What would Cawti say? What would Aliera say?
Why did I care what Aliera would say?
“Take some time, Boss.”
“Hmmm?”
“Take some time. Get over it.”
“I’m not sure it’s that easy.”
“I know. Take some time anyway.”
It seemed like good advice. I lay down on the bed with the intention of taking some time, but after about a minute I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I got up. Inactivity isn’t one of my favorite things.
I paced around the room for a bit, but the room wasn’t nearly big enough to pace in effectively.
“We going out, Boss?”
“Yeah. I need to walk.”
They went out the window, I went out the door.
Walking around while people were trying to kill me and my head was filled with things other than how to avoid them probably wasn’t all that smart, but it’s something I’ve done before. This time, at any rate, I knew I’d be hard to find, and I had Loiosh and Rocza flying around and keeping an eye on me.
In any case, I got away with it; I spent a couple of hours tromping aimlessly around South Adrilankha without anyone trying to kill me, or, indeed, taking any notice of me.
At one point, I found myself back again at the place where my grandfather had lived for so many years, but I didn’t stop. I thought about picking up some food, then realized I wasn’t hungry. I tried to remember when I last ate, and, after working it out, decided it was probably a bad sign and I should eat something anyway.
I picked up some food at one of the stands and ate a bit while I walked. I tossed the rest into an alley for Loiosh and Rocza, who enjoyed it more than I did. I remember an old woman walking past me, wearing an off-white knitted scarf over her head, and thick, heavy shoes. Three or four children went running past me. Old people and children; you didn’t seem to see either one in most of Adrilankha; in the Easterners’ quarter, it seemed like they were the only ones around.
I walked past the shops of those who were wealthy by the standards of South Adrilankha, and the carts and booths of those who were not. I stopped occasionally, pretending to be interested in something, then moved on.
I wondered if I was the only guy in history to destroy someone’s soul without even being aware of it. That would be a first, wouldn’t it? I suddenly thought of Napper, whom I had watched fall to a Morganti weapon in the middle of a battle. I’d known him, and even liked him, and he hadn’t deserved to die that way. And neither had this sorceress of the Left Hand whom I had killed, and destroyed, and to whom I had forever denied Deathgate and rebirth.
“You’ll pay for that.”
It took me a moment to realize that the voice was real, and not in my head. I focused on the fellow talking to me, and remembered I was still Sandor.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ll be paying for that.”
“For—?”
“That.”
He pointed to the remains of a small blue ceramic cup that was in my hand. It had broken cleanly, and I was bleeding a bit, just below the fourth finger. “How much?” I said.
“Six and eight,” he told me.
I nodded, and managed to dig out seven orbs, which I handed to him then walked off without waiting for change.
“You’re bleeding, Boss.”
“Just a little.”
“But you’re dripping it on the ground.”
“So? Oh. Right.”
I cupped my hand, and bought a piece of cheap fabric to wrap it in. I think someone asked what had happened; I don’t remember answering.
I felt better after a few hours. There was a comforting anonymity in being Sandor, maybe because he hadn’t destroyed anyone’s soul. In any case, it finally penetrated that I wasn’t making progress toward any of the things I needed to accomplish: figuring out what the Left Hand was up to, getting Cawti out of this mess, or figuring out how to keep myself safe from an irate sorceress.
Once more, I felt the desire to just walk into the house on Stranger’s Road, start hacking away with Lady Teldra, and see what happened. Looking back, I have no idea why I’d been so shaken up by what I did to that sorceress yet was able to contemplate letting my weapon loose on the inhabitants of that house. No, it doesn’t make sense, but I’m giving it to you as I recall it.
In any case, no, I didn’t go charging into the house; I just wanted to.
“Ready to go back, Boss?”
“I’m ready to do something constructive, if I can figure out what.”
“If not, you can always go kill something.”
“I’ve thought about that. But, you know, I sort of want to have an idea of who to kill.”
“Oh, anyone.”
“Just now, that isn’t funny.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I’ll demonstrate funny for you.”
“When?”
“Later.”
“You’re almost back to the room. Are we going in?”
“I don’t know. Why? Nothing to do there.”
“It’s safer than out here.”
“When have I given the least thought to my personal safety?”
“Okay, Boss. I’ll give you that one. That was funny.”
“I am fulfilled. Let’s
go back and observe that house some more. That’s not quite as useless as anything else I can think of.”
So we did, and watched for a few hours as another courier or two made drop-offs. If nothing else, I was getting a pretty good feel for how much money was involved in this operation. It was a lot. It was certainly enough that they wouldn’t hesitate to brush aside an inconvenient Easterner. In a way, that thought was more annoying than either the Jhereg wanting my soul, or that sorceress who was after me.
“By all means, Boss, don’t let them insult you.”
“Shut up, Loiosh.”
Between the pointless walking and useless observation, I was feeling a bit better as I headed back toward my room. I stopped and picked up a good loaf of bread, some peppers, and some sausages. There were a number of people queued up for the sausages, from which I concluded they must be all right. The woman in front of me, a frail-looking grandmother, glanced at me and said, “Jancsi has been getting busier and busier. Word must be getting out.”
I nodded.
She said, “I’ve known about his sausages for thirty years, you know.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have told all your friends.”
“Mmm?”
“Never mind.”
She gave me an odd look.
A little later she said, “Why are you wandering around in the middle of the day?”
“I’m permitted to leave for lunch.”
“Oh? What do you do?”
“I keep the books for a slaughterhouse.”
She nodded. “That isn’t bad, I suppose, if you must work for someone.”
“What else is there? I’m not the type to run a shop, or sell sausages in the street.”
“My son is looking to buy some land. Grow some maize, maybe raise some sheep and some chickens.”
I nodded. “How is that looking?”
“He’s a hard worker, my son. He’ll get there.”
“He works in the slaughterhouses?”
She nodded. “And we save everything, he and I.”
“Ah. I wish him the best of fortune.”
She smiled, her whole face lighting up like I’d just given her the farm. “Thank you,” she said. Then Jancsi asked what she wanted and I was saved from further embarrassment.
I ate the bread, peppers, and sausages as I walked. The sausages were dry, but good and peppery, with a bite on the lips and the front of the tongue. And there were people walking by who weren’t any taller than I was. In fact, I was taller than a lot of them, and I rather liked that.
I remembered when there were Phoenix Guards all over these streets, facing off against Easterners holding kitchen knives, hammers, sticks, and the occasional rusted sword. There were no signs of that now. Had all of the anger vanished, or was it still there, where I couldn’t see it, waiting to explode again? I had no idea. Nor was I certain if I cared, except that Cawti cared, and was likely to be involved if something happened.
I didn’t know these people—people who dreamed of things like buying land.
I wrapped the remnants of the sausage in its butcher’s paper to give to the jhereg later, and slipped into a place called Ferenk’s. I treated myself to a Fenarian peach brandy called Oregigeret, and sat down at a table to drink it. It stung my tongue and burned my throat, and filled my nose with a harsh smokiness and something almost like pitch. It was wonderful. The Dragaerans have brandy, too, though they don’t call it that. And it’s right that they don’t call it brandy, because if you like brandy, you won’t like the stuff they distill. When it came to brandy, I was an Easterner.
Ferenk’s was nearly empty, save for a couple of old men who looked like they drank professionally. Well, why else would you be here at this time of day? The one at the table next to mine nodded and gave me a half-smile full of yellow teeth. I nodded back. Maybe I should take up drinking professionally.
“Is the brandy good?” I asked him.
“I’m drinking oishka.”
“Oh. How is that?”
He grinned, and I tried to avoid looking at his teeth. “Does the job,” he said.
“Helps you forget your troubles?”
“I don’t have troubles. I have oishka.”
“Good answer.”
Yes, there was a lot to be said for being a professional drinker. Of course, wandering around in a drunken cloud would mean I’d certainly be dead within a couple of days. But they’d be pleasant days.
“You’re retired?” I asked my companion.
He nodded. “I hurt my leg pretty good, and now my daughter and her husband support me.” He grinned. “I don’t mind a bit. I worked hard enough and long enough.”
“Doing what, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“We had some land we worked for Lord Cerulin.”
I nodded. “What happened?”
“The mare kicked me, bless her heart.”
He laughed and held up his glass for a moment, silently toasting the mare, then drained it and wandered up to get another.
I finished the brandy and thought about having a second glass, but ended up walking out onto the street.
I returned to the room long enough to give Loiosh and Rocza the remains of the sausage. While they ate, I pondered. Having rejected drinking as a way of life, I was now back to trying to figure out how to approach my problem. Or all of my problems. Or any of my problems.
What I wanted to do was get hold of Kragar and have him collect information on this Crithnak. But I couldn’t lower my defenses long enough to reach him. It was frustrating.
“You could walk over there.”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about it.”
“And?”
“This disguise is pretty good in the Easterners’ quarter. I don’t know if I want to bet my life on it in my old area.”
“You’ve always been good at sneaking around without being noticed.”
“Yeah, good enough for most things, Loiosh. But the way they’re looking for me now—”
“Well, you could break into the house and see what you can find.”
“I could, if I leave Lady Teldra behind.”
“Oh. Right. I imagine that’s not going to happen.”
“Doesn’t seem likely.”
“This is good sausage.”
It was strange that, after years of wandering around the countryside, completely out of touch with everyone except the occasional emotionally damaged Teckla (there’s a story there, but skip it), I felt more alone and isolated here, now, than in all that time. I suppose it was because I was physically close to so many of the people I had missed, but was still out of touch with them.
Once again, I touched the hilt of Lady Teldra. There was that feeling of presence again. It made me think of the time I had spent in the East. Not the unpleasant part, which was actually most of it, but the feeling of standing with my eyes closed, face up toward the Furnace, like a shower-bath of warmth. And yes, she had saved my life; but she had destroyed a soul in an action so automatic to her, so instinctive, that I hadn’t even been aware it was happening.
Or was I reading too much into it? Very likely. There were probably, I don’t know, mechanics involved—things that she just sort of did. Putting any kind of moral weight on her actions was perhaps like blaming the rock that someone throws at your head.
I badly wanted to be able to be able to communicate with her, but all I got was a vague sensation; pleasant, but frustrating.
If I’m not around when she wakes up, you’ll remember to say hello for me, Sethra had said, or something like that.
“Hey! Lady Teldra! Wake up!”
She didn’t.
I wanted to go to sleep, or get drunk, or something. What I needed was my old Organization, with all its sources of information, and legwork; but I couldn’t reach Kragar or even Morrolan’s network. I was isolated, and frighteningly helpless. Which was odd, considering that I still had all of my skills, my familiars, a lot of money, and a Great Weapon. If I could just—
Hmmmm.
I did have a lot of money, didn’t I?
“Boss? You have something?”
“Yeah,” I told Loiosh. “Yeah, I think I do.”
“Is it something stupid?”
“Oddly enough, no. There was something I’d forgotten.”
“Which means—?”
I checked the time. It had made it to evening; there would now be people starting to fill the streets.
“Come on, Loiosh. It’s time to move.”
“Sounds good. Does that mean there’s a plan?”
“Just watch me.”
9
CHILLED DEFRINA
Mihi removed the wine and replaced it with a new bottle, providing us with new glasses, as well. Again the feather, the glove, the tongs.
Defrina is a white wine with just a hint of, of all things, cherries. The sweetness, which would normally have been too much for me, was cut by an extra chill that Mihi had put on it just for me. The first sip said a merry hello to the flavors already dancing around my tongue, and then it slid down my throat still leaving behind it the taste of the trout, but brightened just a little, if that makes any sense.
I leaned back and studied my dinner companion. “Fun,”I repeated.
He grinned and nodded.
The first several things that came to mind were all sarcastic, but sarcasm didn’t really go with Valabar’s trout and a good, chilled white wine. I said, “Can you explain that?”
He frowned and considered for a moment, then said, “You know, I don’t think I can. I’ll try.”
I drank some wine and nodded.
“You see,” he said. “There’s this feeling you get when things are happening almost too fast for you to handle, and if you make a mistake, you’re dead. You’d be scared out of your mind if you weren’t too busy. Do you know what I mean?”
“Well, I know how I feel at times like that. I don’t much care for it.”
“Don’t you?”
I ate some more fish and drank some more wine.
“In fact,” I said, “I don’t remember enjoying it, or not enjoying it. Like you said, I’m too busy.”
“Well, there you are.”
I grunted. “Afterward, though, I hate it.”
He grinned. “I guess that’s the difference.”
“As long as there is one.”
