by Steven Brust
“My Lord Merss,” it read, “His Lord wishes above all to present His Condolences upon your recent Loss, and to Assure You that all Steps are being Taken to Bring the Perpetrators to Justice. Unfortunately, His Lordship’s Health does not Permit Visitors at this Time, but He Hopes you will Know that You are in His Thoughts in the Kindest way. I Remain, my Lord, Your Servant, Tahchay Loiosh, Scribe.”
“Hey, he has the same name as me,” said Loiosh.
“He probably doesn’t fly as well,” I said.
I folded the note carefully in half, and put it into an inside pocket of my cloak while I thought about it. It wasn’t as if I were surprised; I hadn’t expected him to jump at the chance to see me. I’d had a plan for what to do in this case, back a long time ago—last night—when I’d worked it all out. Only since then everything had come loose, and was now flapping in the breeze.
“Well, Boss? Going to visit him anyway?”
“You know damned well I am.”
“Yeah. Boss, are you trying to get killed?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
“No’:
“Okay.” I gave it some thought. “No, I don’t think so.”
“All right. Good.”
People kept coming into the place, all of them wet and dripping. I didn’t feel like going out, and they didn’t feel like giving me any more than the occasional hostile glance. I’d somehow built Fenario up in my head into this perfect land, full of happy, smiling people who would greet me like a long-lost brother. It was downright disheartening. I was tempted to just start breaking random arms and legs.
And still no sign of Orbahn. I was beginning to think he was avoiding me. Was that suspicious? Well, sure. What, by Barlan’s Sacred Slime Trail, wasn’t suspicious at this point? Anything anyone did or didn’t do, said or didn’t say, might mean he was looking to put a knife in me.
Of course, to some degree, I’d lived with that most of my life. The difference was, I used to know the game and the rules. Yeah, fine, but, okay, Vlad, who broke the rules?
Cawti. She’s the one who got herself involved in things we had no business getting involved in.
Well, yeah, but I was the one who had to piss off the whole Jhereg. What was I thinking, anyway? Heroic rescue my ass. Maybe I was just trying to come up with a good excuse to jump off the ship because I didn’t want the humiliation of running it into the rocks.
Okay, Vlad. Settle down. This is getting you nowhere. Take a deep breath, another slug of wine, and try to bloody concentrate. You have a problem. It isn’t the first problem you’ve ever had. Unless you get stupid, it won’t be the last. So look at it, analyze it, treat it like the others.
Crap.
When you reach the point of needing to tell yourself how to think, you’ve already gone beyond the point where you’re willing to listen. Or maybe that’s just me.
I tried to remember why I’d decided not to get drunk, and I couldn’t, so I called over the barmaid and asked for decent brandy. She returned with a bottle of Veeragkasher, which qualifies, I think. After the third glass I didn’t care, in any case.
Loiosh tells me I got myself to bed all right. He also tells me I didn’t even make it halfway through the bottle. How humiliating.
Sometimes we’re treated better than we deserve. I not only woke up feeling fine the next morning, I also woke up. I went down the hall to the cistern, got some hot water, and spent some time getting clean and pretty. Then I walked over to my window and, standing to the side, looked out at the street. It was gray and wet outside, but no longer raining. I continued watching for a couple of minutes, and then the Furnace appeared, making the wet streets glisten. I could have decided it was an omen, the Furnace coming out like that to brighten things, only it was doing the same thing for my enemies.
Well, no doubt it promised good fortune to someone, about something. Omens always prove true if you just allow them enough room to work.
I spent a few more minutes watching the bizarre spectacle of steam rising from the streets, then went downstairs to the jug-room and got some coffee. With enough honey and heavy cream, it was drinkable, but I made a vow that someday I would return here, buy this man a klava press, and teach him how to use it. Or else maybe kill him.
All right, I knew what I was going to do, and I’d already worked out how to do it—I kept that much of my original plan intact. I returned to my room and dressed as well as I could with what I had with me; I’ve looked better, leave it at that. I took out the Imperial Seal Her Majesty had given me for being an idiot in a good cause—sorry, long story—and folded it up in a square of red silk, which I then sealed with wax and a ring that went with yet another seal, that one in the possession of my grandfather. I put the sealed package, about the size of my palm, in my cloak and went back downstairs to continue waking up.
Eventually the coffee did its work, and my brain started performing in a semblance of its usual manner. I asked the host where the Count’s manor was, and was given a scowl, a suspicious look, and directions that were a good ten miles from town. Which meant I could either spend all day walking there and then back, or …
I sighed and asked if there was anyone who rented horses. Yes, in fact, he did; there were stables in the back, and a stable-boy who would help me pick one out if I showed him a chit. How much? Okay.
“Quit laughing, Loiosh.”
“Boss, sometimes you just ask the impossible.”
The muscle aches had completely vanished, so I might as well get new ones. I went back to the table and took my time finishing my coffee, then walked out the back door to the stables, I suppose much the way a man might walk to the Executioner’s Star.
This “stable-boy” was somewhat older than I was, balding, tall, and had piercing black eyes as well as enough girth to make me feel sorry for the horses. When he began to take the equipment down I got a look at his right biceps. Maybe part of his job was picking up the horses, I don’t know.
He didn’t say a lot as he worked, just grunted when I explained I wanted a horse that would let me stay on top of him, and wouldn’t do anything to embarrass me. He picked out a rather fat-looking horse that is I think the color horse people call “sorrel” though it looked brown to me. If it’s brown, why can’t they call it brown?
He led it up to me, helped guide my foot into the stirrup, and held it while I mounted; then he went around and got my other foot placed.
“Her name is Marsi,” he said.
“All right.”
Marsi seemed indifferent to the proceedings, which pleased me. I felt very, very tall. Too tall. Anything that high up is liable to come down again.
I got going in the right direction, and tried not to let my teeth knock against each other. Marsi, may all the blessings be upon her, walked significantly faster than I did, and felt this meant she had no need to trot, canter, gallop, or turn handsprings. I made a vow to give a nice tip to the stable-boy for not being one of the practical-joking sort one hears about.
The morning grew warm; I removed my cloak and draped it over Marsi’s back—which is much tougher than it sounds on horseback. Thanks to his kindness and Marsi’s good nature, as well as the directions from the host, I felt as good as could be expected by the time I saw the double row of trees that had been described as the entrance to the manor.
It was a long ride to the manor itself, during which I rode by gardeners who glanced at me as if uncertain if they were supposed to make an obeisance. It gradually occurred to me that a lot of the doubt came from the horse. I was, perhaps, the only man within a hundred-mile circle who didn’t consider himself an expert on horseflesh, and I was probably doing the equivalent of Morrolan riding up to the Ascension Day Ball in a hay wagon.
Well, that’s all right, Marsi; I love you anyway.
Some sort of groom, wearing shiny buttons, stood outside the door of the gray stone manor, perfectly positioned at the bottom of the shallow stairway between two white pillars that flanked the red wood d
oorway. A man-at-arms stood next to each pillar, appearing part of the decoration; they wore red and green and metal hats and each carried some sort of ax-like weapon that was taller than the guy wielding it. It didn’t look very practical, but, on the other hand, I’d hate to have one swung at me.
I felt myself come under their gaze. They didn’t move, exactly, but they were certainly paying attention. One had the most impressive mustache I think I’ve ever seen: a massive thing that curled its way well past the sides of his face, held in place by a special sort of waxy-glue that I knew was sold in South Adrilankha. I’d never used it, myself. The other one had a bit of reddish hair peeking out from under his tin hat; I guessed he wasn’t a native Fenarian.
If I had to, I could take them both. Enough said.
As I approached, the groom looked at me, frowned, and hesitated. I didn’t—I climbed down off the horse, thanking Verra that I managed the trick with a semblance of grace, and kept myself from teetering only by dropping my body weight as my grandfather had taught me to do when fencing. I don’t think I looked ridiculous. I took the cloak from the back of the horse, then put the reins into the groom’s hand before he could decide he didn’t want them. I threw my cloak over my shoulder. I can look good doing that because I’ve practiced, and no, I’m not proud of that. I said, “Baron Vladimir Merss to see His Lordship. See to my horse while I have someone announce me.”
If I were going to give myself a new name, why not give myself a new title to go with it?
The groom barely hesitated, then said, “Yes, my lord.”
I waited while he led the horse away, watching closely as if I were uncertain he knew his business; in fact, I didn’t want to try walking just yet the way my legs were shaking. The guards watched me without appearing to—I know that trick. I have no idea if I fooled them with the watching the groom thing; probably not.
The groom led Marsi down a path and out of sight, and I made my trembling way up the three steps—they seemed much deeper steps when trying to climb them than just looking at them—and leaned against the door for a moment before pulling the rope. I heard a gong echo faintly from inside the house, and not long thereafter the door swung open.
The butler—for so I took him to be, and so he was—looked very much the part. He could very well have been picked for his appearance: tall and well-built, clean-shaven, with a proper fringe of white hair. He gave me a bow and a look of polite, noncommittal inquiry.
I said, “Baron Vladimir Merss to see His Lordship.”
“You have a card, my lord?”
“I do not.”
His face betrayed nothing. “May I convey to His Lordship the nature of your business?”
“Give him this.” I removed the silk package and handed it to him.
“Very good, my lord.” He bowed and went away with it.
Ten minutes later he returned with the package; the seal had been broken. I took the package with a small bow and replaced it in my cloak without looking.
The butler cleared his throat and said, “The Count will see you now.”
7
L E F I T T: Oh, gracious. Here? What will I wear? Oh, my. I never know how to speak to nobility.
B O R A A N : My dear, you are nobility.
LEFITT (distracted): Yes. That is why I have given over talking to myself.
—Miersen, Six Parts Water
Day One, Act III, Scene 3
He turned and led me into the interior of the manor. I followed, carefully keeping the smirk off my lips.
There was a certain kind of restrained opulence about the manor—its corridors wide and high; its halls hung with pictures of, I presume, ancestors; its furnishings sturdy and elegant without being gaudy. I approved of it a little bit against my will. I saw four men-at-arms during the passage; they seemed to be concentrating on not being bored. They looked like the others, but didn’t have metal hats on. I only hoped, for their sakes, that when I was out of sight they got to lean against the wall and scratch themselves.
He led me up a winding set of stairs to a hallway covered in white carpeting with a highly polished tan wooden railing on the side overlooking the central hall. Two more guards stood before it, and they exchanged a look with the butler, then, very quickly, crossed their tall ax-things, barring the door. Rocza almost jumped from my shoulder at the sudden movement, and Loiosh was pretty startled as well. So was I. Before I had time to wonder, the guards snapped back into place, clearing the way again.
At the same time the butler stepped forward and said—how to tell you what he said? It was silly, and it rhymed, but it’s hard to translate to get the feel right. The closest I can come is, “Baron Vladimir Merss, on bended knee, requests my lord the Count to see,” but it was longer than that, and even stupider. In Fenarian, everything rhymes, so it could have been an accident that this did, but I don’t think so. If I hadn’t been so surprised, I think I’d have laughed out loud.
The Count was in the room that, I’ve no doubt, he called his “study.” He was old, old, old, old. A big man, though he somehow looked shrunken as he sat. His hands, crossed on the desk in front of him, were lined and wrinkled with veins standing out. His eyes were mild and there were more veins apparent in his nose. His hair and stiff mustaches were iron gray. His complexion was swarthy—about like mine—but had an unhealthy look to it. He wore a sort of red mantle over what looked like blue velvet, which made him look both bigger and more sickly; there was some sort of intricate scrollwork decorating the mantle; very likely it spelled out his lineage or something. This was my first encounter with the Nobility of my home-land. I was underwhelmed.
His voice, however, was strong. “Baron Merss,” he said. “Forgive me if I do not rise.”
“My lord Count,” I said, bowing deeply. “Thank you on behalf of Her Majesty for seeing me.”
“Please, sit. Of course. Wine? Brandy?”
“Wine would be nice.”
He rang a bell on his desk. The butler entered, was told to bring in a glass of wine and a snifter of something he called barparlot. He left and returned fast enough that I might have suspected he’d had them ready.
“Well,” said the Count as he raised his glass and I raised mine. “I trust the Empress wishes for paper?”
I’d half expected it, but I still love it when they hand it to you on a platter; he’d just done ninety percent of my work for me. I did the rest: I nodded.
“No doubt, you will wish to see the facilities?”
“And bring back samples, of course.”
“Of course.” He hesitated. “May I ask, my lord …” He trailed off.
“Why I’ve been staying in town without letting you or anyone know my business?”
He smiled. He had most of his teeth, though there was one in front on the bottom that was missing.
I shrugged. “I wanted to observe things from an outsider’s perspective first. I wanted to see the setting, watch the deliveries go out, speak to some of the workers, that sort of thing.”
“Just to buy paper?”
I gave him a smile, and let him interpret it however he wished.
He grunted a little. “I am not involved much in the day-today activities of the mill, you know.”
“Mill?”
“The paper mill.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I take it you aren’t an expert on paper?”
I laughed. “Hardly. Merely a human with the good fortunen to be trusted by Her Majesty. I am not expected to make informed judgments about the paper, just about the people involved.”
“It seems odd,” he said, “that the Empire would look to our little kingdom for something like this.”
I grinned. “No, it doesn’t, my lord. If it had seemed odd, you’d not have known my purpose so quickly. In fact, I would venture to guess that you have been expecting someone like me for some time.”
He nodded. “Well, yes. You are aware—or, perhaps, your Empress is, or one of her bureaucrats—that here is mad
e the finest paper anywhere.”
“Exactly.”
He nodded. “When would be a good time for you to look over the mill?”
“The sooner the better,” I said. “How about tomorrow?”
“I’ll make the arrangements.”
I sat back and looked around. “I like your home.”
“Thank you,” he said. “It once belonged to the old Baron, before he sold it to my grandfather. It goes back many years. Though perhaps not so many to one who lives among the elfs. Is that difficult?”
“One can get used to anything,” I said. “Although, no slur on your, ah, your mill, sir, but the odor in your town is rather noticeable.”
He smiled a little. “There is a reason we picked an estate that is ten miles from the mill.”
I nodded. “Of course. I should do the same. Other than the odor, it is a pleasant town, though odd.”
“Odd?”
“The Guild,” I said.
“What of it?” He seemed a bit sharp.
“I didn’t mean to give offense,” I said. “Indeed, it had been my impression that the Guild had no standing with the county, and hence couldn’t reflect on yourself in any way.”
His cheek twitched a little; I’m not sure what that meant. “That is true,” he said. “I am not offended. But what is unusual about it?”
“Hmmm? I’ve known of Guilds that had complete control of some local craftsmen, but never of a Guild of merchants, or one that had such complete control of a town.”
He blinked. “I have control of the town,” he said. He sounded like he meant it.
“Well,” I said, “yes. No doubt. But still, the Guild—”
“Fugh,” he said, or something like it, and courtesy required me to change the subject. Sometimes in my business you don’t know if someone is lying or just plain crazy, and you have to live with that.
Meanwhile, I made a temporary retreat and asked him questions about his furnishings, the pictures in the Great Hall, and so on. He relaxed, and seemed to enjoy the conversation, while I tried to work around to a way to start pumping him again. During a pause between questions about the workings of the Imperial Court (some of which I could answer, the rest of which I could lie about plausibly) I said, “Another oddity is the set of beliefs concerning witchcraft. As a stranger from another country, that is odd to me.”
