Jhegaala (Vlad Taltos)

by Steven Brust

  I guessed I’d been walking well over an hour now, maybe two. I tried to check the time on the Imperial Clock, and of course I couldn’t; it was just habit. I didn’t notice exactly the point where I was far enough from the Orb that the effect of the amulet prevented me from getting the time, but it’s odd how, once I became aware of it, it made me uncomfortable. It isn’t like I needed to know the time anymore; it just made me twitchy that I couldn’t find out whenever I wanted. No doubt those who lived here could tell the time pretty effectively by how high the Furnace was in the sky. I looked at it, then looked away. There was a thin wisp of smoke ahead and off to my left, probably some peasant burning rubble.

  “Boss, those are walnut trees on the left.”

  “Ah. Good. I’m glad one of us recognizes them.”

  “You could have asked the coachman to describe them.”

  “I was too embarrassed.”

  Just past the trees was a gravel road, looking impressively well-maintained. I took it, and the thin plume of smoke was now directly in front of me, and I suddenly got a bad feeling.

  “Loiosh—”

  “On my way, Boss.”

  I tapped my rapier and kept walking.

  It took him about three minutes.

  “It’s the house, Boss. Burned to nothing. And—”

  “Are there bodies?”

  “Six so far. Two of them small.”

  I fought back an inclination to run; I was obviously hours too late already. I also told myself to shut up because my brain was busily constructing scenarios in which this wasn’t my fault. Yeah, get real.

  By the time I was fifty yards away I was able to see that they’d made a proper job of it. There was a brick chimney, and smoking rubble; that’s it. There was a medium-sized barn nearby, and a few smaller outbuildings that hadn’t been touched, but the house itself was cinders and ash: I don’t think there was piece of wood left as big as my fist.

  I kept walking. I couldn’t get too close—it was still bloody hot. But I saw a body. This one was whole, and unburned, just outside the scorched area. She was facedown. I turned her over, but there didn’t seem to be any obvious marks on her. The expression on her face wasn’t pretty. She was middle-aged. We’d been related—maybe she was my aunt, or great-aunt.

  “Boss—”

  “You know, I don’t even know what my own people do with bodies.”

  The wind shifted and smoke got into my eyes. I backed away.

  “Boss—”

  “Go find the direction of the nearest neighbors, Loiosh.”

  “Sure, Boss,” he said, and flew off. Rocza went with him.

  I’m not sure how long it was, but presently he said, “Not far, Boss. About a mile. Start west and you’ll see it.”

  I turned my back on the Furnace—it was still morning—and started walking. My feet felt numb, which was odd.

  I did, indeed, see the place—a neat little cottage; it looked cozy. Loiosh and Rocza rejoined me and we approached the place. By the time we reached it, there were two people waiting for us, one holding a scythe, the other some sort of small curved cutting implement I wasn’t familiar with. One was a little older than me, the other quite a bit younger, maybe around sixteen or so.

  “That’s close enough,” said the older one. “Another step closer and I’ll—”

  I kept walking. Loiosh flew into the young one’s face; the older one started to turn, stopped, and by that time he was on his back with my foot on his weapon-hand. He made a pleasing “whump” as he hit the ground. The other, I assume his son, turned back toward me as Loiosh flew away, by which time I was holding a dagger at his throat. There was a stifled scream from the cottage.

  “Don’t threaten me,” I said. “I don’t care for it.”

  They both glared at me. The younger one did it better, but maybe that’s because he was still on his feet. I took a step back and made the dagger vanish. “You can get up,” I said, “but if either of you look like you’re trying to hurt me, you’ll both bleed. Then I’ll go inside.”

  He stood up slowly, dusted himself off, and looked at me. Yeah, he could glare better standing. I could have given him a lesson in manners, but that wasn’t what I was there for.

  I gestured over my shoulder without letting my eyes leave them. I knew the smoke was quite visible from here.

  “Did either of you see what happened?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “If you had, would you tell me?”

  They glared, but gave no other response.

  I took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. I knew the only reason I wanted to take it out on this pair was that they were the ones in front of me; but that didn’t help all that much.

  Yeah, I got my temper under control.

  I looked at the two of them, then finally focused on the presumed father. “My name is Merss Vladimir. You see the smoke. Someone burned that house down either before or after killing everyone who lived there. I don’t know how many bodies there are, because I couldn’t get close enough to count, but at least six. And at least two of them are children. They were my kin. I want to know who did it. If you know, and you don’t tell me, I will hurt you badly.”

  He dropped his eyes, and his mouth worked. “We didn’t see,” he said. “I sent K—I sent my boy over to look, and he saw what you did. We were talking about what to do about it when you, when you showed up.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’m not from here. What is customary to do with bodies, to show respect?”

  “Eh?”

  “What do you do with the bodies of those who die?”

  “We bury them,” he said, as if I were an idiot.

  “What else?”

  “What… sometimes Father Noij will ask the Demon Goddess to look after their souls. Sometimes not. Depends on if, well, if they were known to follow Her.”

  “Were they?”

  He nodded.

  I turned to the younger one. “Go get Father Noij. Have him meet me there. And I’ll need a shovel.”

  The father’s mouth worked again. “I have two shovels,” he said. “I’ll help.”

  “Were they friends?”

  He nodded. “I heard that they, well I heard things. I didn’t care. They never bothered me. And one winter—”

  “All right. You can help.”

  “I’m sorry I—”

  “Forget it.”

  I turned and walked the long, long mile back to the Merss place.

  In what had once, I guess, been the back yard there was what I thought was a maple tree. I sat down and rested my back against it while I waited. Swirls of smoke came from the rubble of what had been the house, and I could see at least three blackened shapes that had once been people.

  I sat there and tried to face it that I had almost certainly caused this. Or instigated it. Someone else had caused it. I would find out who that was and I would do bad things to him. Whatever was going on, this shouldn’t have happened.

  The shadow of the tree had shortened considerably when Loiosh said, “I think someone’s coming.” A minute or so later, I heard footsteps. I stood up and dusted myself off. The peasant had a pair of shovels over his shoulder.

  He walked up to me and nodded, handed me one of the shovels.

  “My name is Vaski,” he said. “I’m a free farmer.”

  “All right,” I said. “Where should we dig?”

  “Under the maple. They always liked that maple.”

  See? I knew it was a maple.

  “All right. How big should the holes be?”

  “About as deep as a man’s height. We lay them on their backs.”

  “All right,” I said. I took off my cloak and folded it, then removed my shirt. He pointed to a spot and we started digging.

  Ever heard someone tell you that hard physical labor can be soothing? Can take your mind off your problems? Can leave you feeling better? I’d heard that. In my opinion, hard physical labor gives you blisters, and the only real
distraction I got was trying to remember the spells I’d once known for curing them. He was much better than me, by the way; turns out there is even skill involved in digging holes. Who knew?

  We were partway into it when a wagon drawn by a small cream-colored horse pulled up with the son and someone who introduced himself as Father Noij. He was short and fat, with brown curly hair around his ears.

  “Merss Vladimir,” I told him.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” he said. “What, exactly, was your relationship to the family?”

  “My mother was a Merss. I took her name. I’m not certain beyond that; I was young when she died.”

  “And your father—?”

  “He’s dead too.” I left it at that, and he nodded.

  “You came here to find them?”

  “Yes. Did you know them well?”

  He nodded.

  “Tell me about them.”

  He did, but a lot of it I’m not sharing with you, whoever you are. Some things should stay private, and it wouldn’t help you understand what happened anyway. He talked, mostly about Vilmoth, whom he described as sour and stubborn, but a loving father. As he spoke, Vaski’s son looked through one of the out-buildings and found another shovel.

  The digging went faster with three of us.

  When Father Noij had at last finished, he said, “What of the stock?”

  “Who inherits?” I said.

  He shrugged.

  Vaski said, “If there were a will, it’s burned up by now.”

  “No other family?”

  “There were once; they’ve moved away to get away from—” He broke off and glanced at Father Noij. “—from things,” he concluded. “Or changed their name.”

  “Changed their name?”

  “That means they disinherit themselves.”

  Yeah.

  “You may be the nearest relative,” said Father Noij. “Perhaps you should decide what to do with what is left.”

  “Pretty casual about this stuff, aren’t you?”

  “Anyone who wants to object can always see the Count.”

  “Not the Guild?” I said.

  He stiffened a little, then relaxed. “It would fall under the purview of the county, not the town.”

  “All right. I’ll look things over, see if there are any documents or keepsakes that have survived. Other than those, if it’s up to me, these people can have the stock.”

  Vaski grunted a thanks.

  It turned out there needed to be seven holes, not six; one of them very very small. It made me sick. If I had still had my Organization, it would have been the work of a day to confirm that the Guild was behind it, and two more days to demolish the Guild so that no trace of it remained. I thought about that as I worked my shovel and sweated.

  The shadows had grown short and then long again when all the holes were dug; neat rectangles, each with a pile of dirt next to it.

  “All right,” said Vaski. “Let’s get the bodies.”

  That’s something else you don’t need to hear about. Let’s just say that most of them were no longer recognizable, and it was as bad as you’d think. I’d spent a lot of my life around death, and seen my share of corpses, also your share, and your uncle’s share; but Vaski handled it better than I did. By the time we were done, it was all I could do not to show how badly shaken I was.

  We filled in the holes one at a time, while Father Noij intoned softly in a language I didn’t know, but from which I could occasionally pick out a name; usually Verra’s but sometimes that of a corpse. He passed his hands over the holes, making cabalistic gestures, and from each picked up some dirt which he whispered over before replacing. I didn’t feel any magic, but with the amulet I was wearing, I probably wouldn’t. I wondered if the Demon Goddess was actually paying attention.

  Partway through the service, we were joined by three more people, who proved to be Vaski’s wife, daughter, around twelve, and youngest son, I’d guess at six or seven. His wife was carrying a basket, which made me realize that I hadn’t eaten since I broke my fast that morning, and it was now late afternoon. With everything, all the different emotions warring in my skull, my stomach was still demanding attention. It’s enough to make you laugh or cry or something.

  Eventually, the last hole was filled in, the last of the rituals completed. It was still late afternoon. It seemed like it should have been much later.

  Vaski and I went through the charred remains of the house, then briefly through the outbuildings, but didn’t find anything of interest. When it was time to eat, Father Noij insisted we draw water and carefully wash our hands. There was a touch of ritual about that, I guess because we’d been handling dead people. There was still some light when the basket was opened, and we ate chewy, sweet dark bread, a harsh goat cheese, dried kethna, and a white liqueur that tasted of cherries but was oddly refreshing. I found I was eating slowly, in spite of my hunger. No one spoke while we ate; it was like that was part of the ritual, too. Maybe it was.

  It had become pretty dark by the time we finished. I nodded to Vaski. Father Noij said, “I can drive you to your inn, if you wish.”

  “I’d like that,” I said. “Ah, is it customary to pay you for such services?”

  “The burial, or the ride?” he asked, and then chuckled. “A pittance as a gesture would not be improper.”

  I gave him a few copper pennies, and he nodded. He went over and said a few words to Vaski and his family, then climbed into the wagon. The horse shook its head and made some sort of horse sound as I climbed up next to Father Noij. He turned the wagon around and started us back to town. I’m no judge, but it seemed that he knew how to handle the horse and the wagon.

  It was a long ride back to town after a long day. I started to drowse off, and I might have fallen asleep if he hadn’t said, “Feel free to rest; I will wake you when we reach your inn.” I hadn’t told him which inn I was staying at. No, that didn’t really mean anything, but it made me nervous enough that I stayed awake for the rest of the journey.

  “Thank you for the ride,” I told Father Noij as we reached my inn.

  “You are welcome, Merss Vladimir,” he told me. “And I am sorry that this happened.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Someone else will be, too.”

  He shook his head. “That is no way to think.”

  I stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “Revenge is self-destructive.”

  “I thought you were a priest of Verra.”

  “And if I am?”

  “When has the Demon Goddess frowned on vengeance?”

  “I do not speak for the Goddess, Merss Vladimir. Though I serve her, and the people of this town through her, I cannot make such a claim. I speak as one man to another. Your desire for vengeance will—”

  “You’re bloody serious, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Amazing.”

  He said, “I once knew a man who spent thirty years—thirty years, attempting to—”

  “Feh. That’s not about vengeance, that’s obsession.”

  “Nevertheless—”

  “Thank you for the ride, Father,” I told him. I hopped down from the wagon and entered the inn, Loiosh hissing laughter in my ear.

  What surprised me when I walked into the Pointy Hat was how busy it was; I guess it was only then I realized that, by most standards, it was still early in the evening. I took a quick look to see if Orbahn was in. He wasn’t. If I wanted to, I could decide that was suspicious, but it was too much work just then.

  I took myself up to my room, removed my boots and cloak, and stretched out on the bed.

  A part of it hadn’t hit me until that moment: the realization that I wasn’t going to be able to speak to them, to get to know them, to ask them who my mother was, and why she had left. A big piece of my past had just been lopped off. I was going to find who had done it, and I was going to find out why, and I was going to hurt somebody very, very badly.
>
  “Loiosh?”

  “Yes, Boss?”

  “We need to find a safe place tomorrow to take the amulet off long enough for me to do something about these blisters.”

  “Safe? Boss—”

  “Safer. Sort of safe.”

  “There is no such time or place.”

  “Think it’s safe for me to be wandering around with my hands blistered?”

  “Aren’t there other ways to cure it that don’t involve letting the Jhereg find you?”

  “Sure. That should only take a week or so.”

  “We can hide for a week.”

  “Yes, but we aren’t going to.”

  “Okay, Boss.”

  He fell silent, and I stared up the ceiling for a long time, remembering the bodies in the ruins the house, and wrapping sheets around them so we could drag them to the holes we’d dug. Oddly, my dreams weren’t about that, they were about digging the holes; I dug them over and over in my sleep.

  But I did sleep; I guess that’s the important thing.

  Part Three

  STEMINASTRIA

  The steminastria, which can last for several weeks depending on food supply, is the most active of stages, in the sense that it is constantly moving, and constantly eating, never leaving the pond in which it was born. In seasons where there is great competition, or little food, the steminastria will often die rather than transform…. One of the more unusual features of the steminastria is that at this stage, when it eats far more than at any other stage (at least nine times its own weight every day), it is a pure vegetarian—living on the underwater plants and lichen. We still do not know exactly what triggers the transition to its next stage, unless it is simply that the enormous quantity of food it consumes causes it to reach a point where it must transform before it literally bursts….