Jhegaala - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Steven Brust (Начало книги) #1

Incubation time is short—eight or nine days—during which the egg is vulnerable. While the mother is able to protect the eggs after completing her metamorphosis (see Chapter 19), that still leaves between thirty-five and forty hours during which the eggs would be entirely without protection, were it not for the help of a male who has undergone his own metamorphosis after fertilizing the eggs (see Chapter 18) and now returns, as it were, to stand guard while the mother is helpless, as will be covered in more detail during the discussion of the levidopt.

It must be stressed that it is not, in particular, the father who returns to guard the eggs, but rather the first unattached male levidopt to pass within fifty feet or so of the transforming mother. Exactly how the male levidopt finds the eggs…

—Oscaani: Fauna of the Middle South: A Brief Survey, Volume 6, Chapter 15

prologue

Lefitt: But, my dear, what does it do? Boraan: Why, nothing, of course. It just lies there. That's the beauty of it.

—Miersen, Six Parts Water Day One, Act II, Scene 4

There is a place in the mountain called Saestara where, according to the locals, you can look east and see the past, and look west and see the future. I suppose it has its origins in some migration in pre-history, or some invasion, or some mystical rubbish built of thin air—plenty of that in the mountains, at any rate. I don't know, but the locals seem to believe it.

And, if it's true, I was going backward. Looking west, I remembered lots of painful scrabbling up paths that were made by and for mountain goats; looking east, I foresaw more of the same going down.

Some distance behind me was a lake called Szurke, on the edge of a forest. I owned the lake and a little bit of the forest and the big manor house near it, courtesy of the Empire and thanks to "extraordinary service." That's a laugh. I didn't dare stay there, courtesy of the House of the Jhereg and thanks to "extraordinary misdeeds." That's not such a laugh.

I'd installed my grandfather as regent. As I told him, "I prefer nepotism to despotism." He hadn't been amused; he didn't much like the idea of being a despot himself, having pretty much always hated the aristocracy with a sort of mild dispassionate hate that had its origins in a past of which I'd never gotten more than hints.

He and I had both been worried during my visit. He was worried because the poaching in his part of the forest had gotten out of hand when the poachers realized he didn't have the heart to enforce the laws against it. I was worried that the Jhereg might be mad enough at me to take it out on him. I didn't think they would—what I'd done hadn't been as bad as, say, giving evidence to the Empire—but it caused me some concern.

We talked about that, and Noish-pa wasn't worried. The Jhereg is capable, perhaps, of making use of a human witch, no matter how much they scorn the magic of "Easterners," but they'd be hard pressed to find one as skilled as my grandfather. And give him a little time with all the animals, and even the trees and plants in this area, and he would create a security network and defensive perimeter I'd defy Mario to break through.

We had a long talk about the trouble I was in, and his troubles with poachers (which translated to hating having to tell anyone what to do), and where I was going to go from here. He didn't want to know, because he figured that what he didn't know the Jhereg couldn't force him to tell. I was going to explain that the Jhereg didn't do things like that, but, well, sometimes they do.

I played with Ambrus, his familiar, and Noish-pa and Loiosh, my familiar, got reacquainted. I stayed for a week and he cooked for me and we talked about many things, especially how he could continue as regent without actually running anything. We came up with some ideas to at least cut down on the orders he would have to give, and he seemed happy.

One night, over Fenarian brandy, I said, "Noish-pa, is there anything you can tell me about my mother?"

He sighed. "She studied the Art, Vladimir, and that made my son, may he find peace, unhappy. And so I saw her little."

"Eh, why?"

"You know how your father felt about the Art, Vladimir. He didn't want the two of us speaking of it. I hardly saw my son after his marriage, save when he brought you over after your mother passed on. I wish I could tell you what she was like, Vladimir. I remember she had a kind face and a soft voice, yes?"

I nodded; that much was more than I'd had before.

He said, "You know that, like me, she was not long in this land of elfs. I came from Fenario when—when I had to leave. But her father came, either before she was born, or when she was only in arms."

"Why did he leave?"

"She never said."

I nodded. "What was her name? I mean, before she was married?"

"I don't know," he said. "No—" He frowned. "Yes, I may know at that. A moment, Vladimir, while I search."

He left the room—a cozy little alcove that Noish-pa had turned into his library—and was gone for about half an hour. When he returned, he was holding a piece of parchment-cloth. He said, "I had this note of her. I have often puzzled over it."

I took it. It smelled the way cloth gets to smell when it's been in a drawer for years and years; it had yellowed a little. I studied it and frowned. "You can't read it either?"

"Oh, I can read it, Vladimir. It is a runic writing that is very, very old in Fenario. Some say it goes back to before the Fenarians settled there. It is still sometimes found in old tomes of the Art, which is why I learned it. I should have taught you."

"Well, if you can read it, what's the puzzle?"

He smiled the smile I knew so well: eyes twinkling with secrets that were fun, rather than secrets that could cut. He took it back; he had to hold it just a little farther away from his eyes than he had a few years before. He cleared his throat and read: "Father, the food was good and the evening delightful. Please accept my thanks on behalf of myself and Pishta. We both very much look forward to seeing you again. With love, Marishka Merss Taltos."

"Merss" I said.

He nodded.

Then I frowned. "Wait. What is puzzling about it?"

"Eh, Vladimir? You tell me." His eyes were twinkling again.

"Umm," I said. "Well, is it what it seems? I mean, did it come after a meal?"

He nodded.

"Then what—oh." It took me a moment, but I got it; first one piece, then the other. "In the first place, why did she use her full name when writing a thank-you note? In the second, why write a thank-you note in an ancient runic script?"

He nodded. "I still wonder."

I said, "Do you remember the dinner?"

"Oh, yes. Not often did your father visit me at that time."

"Noish-pa?"

"Hmm?"

"Was my mother pregnant when she wrote that?"

He frowned and his eyes narrowed and shifted up and to the right as his memory worked. After a moment he nodded.

I smiled. "It was meant for me, Noish-pa. To answer my questions, in case I lived and she died. She knew my father—"

He was grinning and nodding. "Yes. It must be!"

"I wonder where she was from." I said.

He shrugged. "Merss, it is not a common name. Do you know its meaning?"

I shook my head.

"Pulper," he said. "And what is a pulper?"

"Um, it has something to do with wood. With making paper out of wood, I think."

He nodded and frowned. "I know of a town where much paper came from, in the west of Fenario where the River of Faerie is young and strong. Burz, it is called."

I laughed. "Burz? They named their town Burz?"

"Eh, perhaps making paper makes not such a pretty smell?"

"Maybe," I said.

A town called Burz with a paper factory and a bad smell, on the River—that was where my mother might have come from. And me with nothing to do except stay out of the clutches of the Jhereg. There would be all sorts of advantages to going east to the homeland of my mother and father. For one thing, a Dragaeran would stand out there even more than I stood out among the Dragaerans. For another, I had the strong feeling that they were going to use a Morganti weapon on me. And bringing such a weapon in among a group of witches would alert every one of them within a quarter of a mile. There are special sheaths made to conceal the effects of such a blade from a sorcerer—I knew, I'd used them a couple of times. But even if it were possible to construct a sheath to hide the psychic emanations a witch would feel, the Jhereg wouldn't know how to go about it. In fact, they might well not even be aware they needed to.

No question, it would be safer for me in the East.

And I could find my mother's family.

The conversation passed on to other things, and I never told him I was going East, but over the next several days I received lectures, in the same tones I remembered from when I was studying the Art, about Eastern customs, the political structures of Fenario, and the culture. He also began speaking Fenarian and demanded I did, too. He was very picky about my pronunciation, and even pickier about my accent.

Guilds and Covens.

We talked a lot about Guilds and Covens, and it was good that we did, because—but no, I'm getting ahead of myself. But I'll tell you some of it now, so that later you'll understand. Well, understand at least as well as I did, which wasn't very.

Guilds, I was told, were for trades—craftsmen—and were a means to have some way of defending themselves against the merchants who often sold their goods as middlemen. In some parts of Fenario, the craftsmen sold things directly, so there were fewer Guilds. In other parts, there were Guilds that took in large areas (well, relatively large; Fenario itself is a pretty small kingdom by my standards).

And nearly every town, no matter how small, had its Coven, occasionally open, but more often with its members secret. The Coven functioned as a Guild for witches, sometimes combining their powers into common spells, sometimes simply using the threat of their abilities to look out for the members' interests.

I asked him, "Are all witches usually members?"

"Vladimir, in Fenario, there are, ah, well, nearly all peasants know some little spell or another."

"Then who joins a Coven?"

"Those who use the Art a great deal. Many will sell their services, you know. And others, who gather and prepare the herbs."

"Like you. You'd be in a Coven if you were back there."

He nodded. "Many places, you can't help it. Those who do not join, but should . . ." He trailed off, leaving to my imagination what a Coven might do to an individual witch they didn't like.

"Is there ever more than one Coven?"

"Not for long," he said.

Guilds and Covens, Covens and Guilds. Yeah, it's a good thing he took the time to explain those to me.

We drank more brandy and ate more food, and finally, the day after Spring Balance day, I embraced him and said good-bye, which was how it came to be that I stood in the pass of Saestara, looking behind me into the future and before me into the past.

Below, at some vague point, was the end of the Empire and the border of Fenario, land of ignorance and knowledge, superstition and science. Okay, well, maybe not so much with the science. But what do you call it when the superstitions might be true?

Loiosh on my right shoulder, Rocza on my left, I started down the mountain.

Part Two

apoptera

This stage will last from the moment of hatching until the layer of fat has been

entirely consumed—usually four to five weeks. During this period, the apoptera, its fins fully grown by the time it has hatched, will remain entirely in the water while its basic organs develop. Curiously, the last of these is sight; the apoptera is blind until nearly the moment of transformation. Indeed, it is speculated by some natural philosophers (cf. Hidna, Corventra) that it is the first sensation of light that triggers its metamorphosis…

Much remains unknown about the memory of the apoptera. Most of the assumptions in previous work about the "astonishing memory" at this stage are based on Leroni's work documenting its determination to explore every corner of its limited world. While its inquisitive nature cannot be denied, it has never been positively established that there is any memorization as such that carries on to later stages. Indeed, there is some indication to the contrary (see Appendix D this volume).

—Oscaani: Fauna of the Middle South: A Brief Survey, Volume 6, Chapter 16

Boraan: A candle! As you love the Gods, a candle! Nurse: But we have no candles! Boraan: How, no candles? Nurse: They were all burned up in the flood. Dagler: Permit me to sell you this beeswax.

[Boraan strikes Dagler with candlestick]

[Exit Dagler, holding his head]

—Miersen, Six Parts Water, Day One, Act IV, Scene 4

The transition from mountain to forest was so gradual, I wasn't entirely sure I was out of the mountains for a while even after I had turned north; and this in spite of them towering over me to my left. But eventually, I became convinced that I wasn't getting much lower, and soon enough, there was no question that I was in deep woods, with trees I can't name so close together I sometimes had to squeeze past them and with branches so low I had to duck to avoid getting hit in the face. The combination seemed unfair.

After that I felt more confident as I headed north, giving thanks for the occasional clearing, even though in the clearings I could see the Furnace, and it hurt my eyes.

I don't like forests. I hate the trees, and I hate the bushes, and I'm not even that fond of the paths, because they have a way of either suddenly heading off in directions you don't want to go, or just stopping without giving you any explanation for their conduct. When I was running my territory for the Jhereg, if any of my people had acted like that I'd have had their legs broken.

In the Pushta, you can usually see a good distance around you; you just have to keep an eye on what might be moving through the grasses. In the mountain, at least the mountains I've been on, you can see for miles in at least a couple of directions. In the city, you might not be able to see very far, but you can identify where anyone who might want to do you harm could be lurking. Forests are thick, and anything can come from anywhere; I never feel safe.

And sleeping is the worst. I spent about three nights in the forest after I came down from the mountains, and I didn't get a good night's sleep the entire time, in spite of the fact that Loiosh and Rocza were watching for me. I just couldn't relax. When I become ruler of the world, I'm going to have inns put up along every little road and trail in that place. I would certainly have gotten lost if it weren't for Loiosh and an occasional sight of the mountain.

I waded over several brooks and streams, one of which showed signs of becoming a river soon: it seemed to be in a terrible hurry, and had a lot of force for being only a foot or so deep and maybe ten feet wide. I didn't much care for that, either.

In spite of the annoyances, I was never in any danger so far as I know (though I'm told Dzur sometimes hunt the forests). I made it through; leave it at that. The trees became lower, sparser, and the grasses taller, with large, jagged boulders intruding on the landscape as if the mountain were encroaching.

"Well, for marching blind, I guess we did all right, Loiosh."

"We sure did, Boss. And only modesty forbids me from saying how we managed."

"Heh.”

An hour or so later we found a road. A real road. I could have danced, if I could dance. It was getting on toward evening, and the Furnace was sinking behind the mountains. The shadows— remarkably sharp, looking almost tangible—were long, and a certain chill was coming into the air on a breeze from behind me.

"That way," said my familiar, indicating down the road to the right. Since the mountains were to the left, I'd have figured that one out on my own, but I didn't say anything. I set out.

After mountain and forest, it was a positive luxury to walk on a road; even a rutted, gouged, untended road like this. My feet thanked me, as did my left elbow, which was no longer being cracked by my sword's pommel when I raised my left leg to climb onto a rock.

For an hour or so, I saw no one and nothing save a lone farmhouse far across a field. The shadows lengthened and Loiosh was silent and my mind wandered.

I thought about Cawti, of course. A few weeks ago, I'd been married. A few weeks before that, happily married; or at least I thought so. Anyone can make a mistake.

But what was odd was how little I was feeling it. It was pleasant walking down the road, and I was in good shape from all the climbing, and the evening wasn't too cold. I knew the whole thing was going to hit me—I mean, I knew it. It was like seeing an outof-control team barreling down on you, and watching it come closer, and knowing it's going to flatten you. Here it comes, yep, I'm about to be either killed or messed up. Any second now. How interesting.

I could even be sort of dispassionate about it. I pondered whether I could convince her to take me back, and, if so, how? I ran through the arguments in my head, and they seemed very persuasive. I suspected they'd be less so when 1 actually tried them on her. And, even if she was convinced, I'd still have to deal with her politics, which is what had gotten between us in the first place.

And there was still the big problem, which was that circumstances had conspired to force me to save her. I don't know if I could have forgiven her if she had saved me; I didn't see how she could forgive me for saving her. It's an ugly burden. Eventually, I was going to have to try to overcome it.

And in the meantime, I was heading in the opposite direction, while somewhere behind there were people who wanted to get rich by putting the shine on me.

No, it didn't look good.

How interesting.

"We getting close to the water, Loiosh?"

"Wind shifted, Boss. I don't know.”

“All right:”

I should mention that nothing so far was at all familiar from my previous journey to Fenario, but that had been years before, and I wasn't paying all that much attention to my surroundings then.

With an abruptness that caught me by surprise, it was, dark—I mean completely dark. There were small pinpoints of light in the sky, but they provided no illumination. Maybe they should have; I was told by a human physicker once that I had poor night vision. I could have had it corrected, but the process is painful, and a spell to compensate is absurdly easy. Except, of course, when you are unable to cast the simplest of spells for fear of removing the protections that keep the bad guys from finding you. So for now, little points of light or no, I was effectively blind. I wondered if failing to have that fixed when I could, would end up being what did me in. Come to think of it, I still wonder.

I stepped a few paces off the road, and, having no better idea, took off my pack, spread out my blanket, and lay down. Loiosh and Rocza, I knew, would take care of any annoying beasts, and wake me if there were any dangerous ones. It wasn't until I was prone that I became aware of the sound of night insects all around me. I wondered if they were the sort that bit; then sleep took me.

Evidently they weren't the sort that bit.

I'd been walking about two hours the next day before I passed a young man driving a wagon filled with hay. I hailed him, and he stopped the horse—one of the biggest I'd ever seen—and greeted me. I had the impression he was a bit disconcerted by the jhereg on my shoulders, but was too polite to say anything.

"Which way to Burz?" I asked him.

He pointed the way I was going. "Over the bridge," he said, “in a while the road will fork, and there's a sign. You'll likely smell it after that."

"Good enough," I told him, and gave him a couple of copper pennies. He tapped his forehead, which I took as a gesture of thanks, and continued, on his way.

I suddenly felt as if I was too relaxed, not paying enough attention, and resolved to stay a little more on my guard. Then it hit me that I had now made that resolution around a dozen times since coming down out of the mountains.

"I'm feeling safe, Loiosh. As if I'm out of danger. I can't decide if I should trust that feeling.”

"I'm not sure, Boss, but I've been feeling the same way."

"Like we're out of their reach?"

"Yeah."

"Well, we probably are, but let's not trust it too much."

I found the bridge—it spanned a stream maybe twenty feet wide—and went "a while," which turned out to be most of the rest of the day. Once over the bridge, the road abruptly improved, showing signs of regular maintenance. I stopped a couple of times to eat bread, cheese, and sausage I'd gotten in Saestara (the village, not the mountain). The bread was getting stale, but it was still better than the hardtack. As I walked, I noticed that the forest, which I had thought was left behind me, seemed to be returning on my right; or maybe it was a different forest. I ought to have tried to find a map, I suppose, but I'm told they are hard to come by and rarely reliable.

Over the next several hours, the forest seemed to come closer, but avoided the road (I know, the road was dug around the forest, but I'm telling you how it looked, all right?). Eventually, I found the fork, and there was a sign just as there was supposed to be, on a stout wooden pole.

I followed it, and the road bent closer to the forest. It took us over low hills, and in places there were crops I didn't recognize in neat rows. More farmhouses appeared. The outbuildings were in good shape, and well painted. I tried not to look down on the locals for building everything out of wood; I knew that just came from living among Dragaerans. From an unbiased viewpoint, this seemed to be a more prosperous area than similar regions near Adrilankha. I wondered what Cawti would say if I made that observation to her.

The shadows lengthened, as the Furnace prepared to vanish behind the mountains, still looming up behind me. Presently, I became aware of a low rumble to my right, and I saw that the road had been joined by a fairly respectable river.

The Furnace plunged below the mountains, and it became significantly darker; still somewhat lit by the glow behind me, but—I was going to have to get used to how much more quickly it became dark, and how very much darker it was here. It had never occurred to me that the permanent overcast above the Empire might somehow provide a bit of ambient light, but apparently it does. I went another mile or so, and realized sadly that I was probably going to have to spend another night on the road.

The road curved as I came to the top of a hill, and below, still some distance away, was a very faint light. "Check it out, Loiosh."

It was a long way away; I must have covered half a mile before he returned, and from what I could see it could still be anything from a bonfire to—

"Just what you want, Boss. A nice little inn. And just beyond it, a nice little town. And, to judge from the smell, it is just the nice little town you're looking for."

"You are hereby forgiven for the last nine things that require forgiving."

"Speaking of smells, I think they have real food at the inn there, Boss. Just don't forget who your friends are."

It was full dark by the time I reached the door to the place. The light I'd seen came from two windows of oiled paper, and wasn't enough to let me see the sign. But I didn't need it by then. There was talking and laughing and the smell of bad beer, and good food, stronger than the stench from—I presumed— the paper factory that I'd started to notice during the last few hundred yards.

I forced myself to ignore the growling of my stomach for a few minutes, while I stood near a window and let my eyes adjust; then I opened the thick door and stepped inside, moving at once to the side. I got a couple of glances, and Loiosh and Rocza got a couple more as I looked around. It was a two-story building, with doors in the back, but this room occupied most of the structure. A long, polished bar ran about half the length of the wall to my right, and there were a few score of people— Easterners—humans— sitting at tables, leaning on the bar, or standing against walls.

I went up to the bar, and eventually a middle-aged human came over to me. He had a pot belly and wore a sleeveless brown tunic; his arm muscles were truly impressive. Before I could say anything, he gestured toward my familiars with his chin and said, "Get them out of here."

I studied him. He looked strong, but not very fast. His eyes were brown. After a moment, he looked away. I said, "Brandy. I also want some food." He barely nodded, poured, and said, "See one of the girls about the food." He retreated to the other end of the bar. I left him a couple of coins, and then went over to find a blank piece of wall.

"Ignorant prejudice, Boss. It's shameful—"

"Stay alert."

"Yeah, yeah."

Eventually a young lady came by. She was dressed in red and blue and yellow and had nice ankles as well as a tray full of mugs and pitchers. "Food," I said as she passed by.

She stopped, noticed the reptiles on my shoulders, and seemed to consider whether she ought to be upset. Eventually she decided not to be, because she said, "There are some fowls roasting, lamb stew, and a hunter's stew."

"The hunter's stew."

She nodded, and then looked around. "I don't think there's any place to sit."

"I can stand."

She made an effort at smiling, then turned and walked away. I used my finely honed powers of observation to make sure the ankles looked as good from the back. They did.

It was about then I noticed that, full as the room was, there were no women there at all except the three barmaids. I wasn't sure what that meant, but it was interesting.

I picked up bits and pieces of conversation. Not much was interesting, but they were speaking Fenarian, and the purity of the accent made me miss my grandfather although it had been only days since I'd seen him.

Presently, the ankles returned with a large bowl of hunter's stew, a big spoon, and a loaf of black bread that could have fed a family in South Adrilankha for a week. I set my drink down on a shelf against the wall—probably made for that purpose—paid her, and collected the food. She inspected the Dragaeran copper carefully, but accepted it without complaint.

The stew was pork (no, I don't know why they'd call something made with pork "hunter's stew," unless it was the tenderest wild boar in the history of cooking) and onions, and a delightful variety of mushroom I'd never had before and three kinds of peppers, peas, carrots, and some other sort of legume. The bread was still warm from the oven and it was perfect. I got a few looks as I fed bits to the jhereg, but no one seemed inclined to comment—maybe because I was the only one in the place openly carrying a weapon.

I was about halfway through the bowl when a table opened up in front of me and I was able to sit down. That was better. The place was beginning to clear out a bit. By the time I'd finished eating, there were only about a dozen left, all having quiet conversations. Most of them were elderly. The hard-core drinkers. I knew the type; I'd be willing to bet thirty hours from now I'd see the same faces in here.

I called a barmaid over. This one also had nice ankles; it seemed to be a requirement of the profession. I said, "Is it possible to get a room for the night?"

She had deep violet eyes, unusual for a Fenarian. She nodded and said, "You'll have to see the host."

"I will then," I said. "In the meantime, another brandy."

She headed off to get it while I relaxed and started realizing how tired I was getting. The thought of a real bed, the second since I'd left Noish-pa's, was enchanting.

I drank the brandy slowly, after it was delivered, enjoying the feeling that I was very tired and would soon rest. Then I went up to the host and asked about a room. He glanced at the jhereg on my shoulders, then nodded grudgingly, accepted a silver orb, and pointed toward a door in the back of the room.

The door led to a stairway, which ended in a hall, beyond which were doors. I opened the first one on the right, saw the bed, smiled, and stretched out on it. I gave a sigh of contentment and that's all I remember for a while.

The host was there the next morning when I came downstairs. He glanced at me, and then returned to wiping down the bar. I walked out the door and took my first breath, which was no fun. Verra's tits and toenails, but it stank!

"Boss—"

"I know.”

"Rocza doesn't like it."

"We'll get used to it."

"I hope not.”

I tried to ignore the stench, and took a good look around.

The sign over my head showed a long pointed hat painted with red and white stripes. I didn't want to guess what they called the place. To the left was nothing. Well, okay, fields planted with wheat, and the road. To the right was a small town: a few score buildings and houses, and I could see some side streets heading off. Between some houses I could make out a river, with docks jutting out into it, and boats and barges tied to the docks, and the Furnace, bright enough that I had some trouble seeing the rest. I headed in that direction.

Not many people were on the streets; one woman in a faded blue dress and absurdly bright yellow shoes carried an infant into a shop; two old men sat on a low stone wall in front of a narrow house—I think they'd been in the inn last night; a young man wearing a battered silk hat drove a pushcart full of bits of iron, and seemed to be in no hurry to get where he was going.

As I passed the two old men, they stopped their conversation, and politely stared at me. No, I'm not sure how they did that. I turned right on a winding, narrow road, aiming for the docks. Two men were strolling in the same direction. One said, "How are things, Janchi?" to which the other replied, "Dreaming small," if I heard him right. Then they heard my footsteps, glanced back, and stood aside while I passed. I nodded to them. They nodded back, and then stared politely.

The breeze was in my face as I approached the docks, and I could now see a large brick structure on the other side of the river, belching smoke. There were docks there too, and several barges. I stopped and watched for a while. There was an affair upstream of the dock that, after some study, I realized was a log corral; at least, that's all I can think to call it. It was a sort of slatted fence, complete with gate, and through the slats I could see logs floating.

The river was of respectable girth; I'd say a good quarter of a mile across. I watched it for a while. There is something calming about watching a river. I know some people get that feeling from watching the ocean, but I prefer a nice river. When I was a kid, I used to stand on the Chain Bridge and watch the Adrilankha River float by under me for hours at a time. This river didn't have any such pretensions; it didn't even have any river traffic, at least while I was watching just then. But it was soothing. I had never asked Cawti how she felt about rivers; it had somehow never come up.

I left my dignity there, then walked out to the end of the dock in front of me and sat down. The river was a sort of dingy brown, but if there was any smell to it, it couldn't penetrate the rotting-vegetation smell of the factory. I watched the river as if I had a reason to, as if I were on a job. But I wasn't. I didn't have anything I really had to do. I had idle curiosity about my mother's family and a bit of a clue to follow up on, but it wasn't important. I'd maybe ask a few questions, and see if anyone could tell me anything, but beyond that, my life was focused around not letting the Jhereg get to me. I was going from, not toward. It was a new experience. I wasn't certain if it would come to bother me, someday in the future when I would start to feel things again. I wondered where I would be when that happened. Alone, I hoped.

I suddenly wished I had a handful of pebbles to throw into the water one at a time, to listen to them plunk and watch the ripples.

I must have sat there for a couple of hours; then I got up and went back to the inn, where the host was convinced to feed me some of yesterday's bread with a goat's milk cheese, smoked sausage, and some coffee with warmed cream, chocolate, and beet sugar. It was a little stuffy inside, and for just an instant I was going to ask him to open a window, when I realized why it was closed.

I finished eating and went back to the host, who was sitting on a tall stool behind the bar, his head back against the wall and his eyes closed. He opened them when my footsteps approached. I said, "My name is Vlad."

He hesitated, and then said, "Inchay."

I nodded, and decided that was enough sociability for the moment; I headed back out into the stench.

You don't need to hear about the next several hours. I walked around, nodding to a few people and getting to know the town. It was big, as such places go, with a couple hundred identical shacks at the far end, a shoemaker and a dry goods store to support them, and a spot for the market to set up come Endweek. The area around the shacks was a lot filthier than the farms I'd seen. And I saw other things, nothing worth noting.

As the shadows became long, I returned to the inn and had them feed me on a roasted fowl basted with sweet wine. As I was eating, two of the barmaids appeared wearing simple peasant gowns. They vanished into a room in the back of the inn, then emerged a few minutes later with their ankles showing and their breasts stretched taut against yellow or blue fabric. The one with curly, dark hair asked if I needed anything, and I accepted ii glass of the local red wine, which was a bit acidic, but drinkable.

As it grew dark outside, the place filled up again. I was seated along the back wall, and this time, I suppose because I wasn't hungry and exhausted, I paid more attention to the people around me.

I realized that I knew at once those who worked at the paper factory, because they wore simpler clothing than the peasants who had dressed up to spend an evening drinking and wore bright blues and reds and yellows; those who worked in the mill whore simple clothing of dark green or brown. The young ones with long hair and were clean shaven; the older ones had mustaches or neatly trimmed beards. There were only a couple of mill groups of these; most of the patrons were obviously peasants, some of them too young to shave. And there were still no one in the place, save the barmaids. The more I sat there, stranger it seemed that it was so easy to identify which group they were part of, and that they all held so rigidly to their style. The groups didn't mix with each other, either.

In he sure, there were a few who didn't belong to any group: One fellow with bright, teary eyes who grinned a lot through missing teeth and wore black pants and a white shirt blue coat and several rings. And another who had high boots and mustaches that fell well below his chin. And the barrel-chested one in the blue felt vest with inky black hair that fell behind his shoulder in thick curls.

"What do you think of those three, Loiosh?"

"Dunno, Boss. If we were home, I'd take the toothy one and the mustached one as merchants. Couldn't guess about Curly."

"That's what I was thinking as well. How come there are no women in this place?"

"I couldn't guess, Boss. Ask someone?"

"I think I will.”

While I was deciding what to ask, who to ask it of, and how to approach it, the problem was taken out of my hands by the guy in the blue felt vest, who came up to my table, glanced at the jhereg on my shoulders, and said, "Mind if I join you?"

I nodded at one of the empty chairs.

He sat down smoothly and held up a hand; in a few minutes, a barmaid came over and brought him a tiny porcelain cup, which he lifted in my direction. "Barash Orbahn. Call me Orbahn."

"Merss Vladimir," I lied, lifting my own. "Vlad."

He frowned a little. "Merss? An unusual name."

"Yes," I said.

He downed his drink and winced, shivered, shook his head, and smiled. I sipped from mine. "What are you drinking?"

"Rakia. Plum brandy."

"Ah. I should have guessed. My grandfather used to look like that when he drank it."

He nodded. "It's imported from the South. I don't know why we import it, or why anyone drinks it. A test of manhood, maybe." He grinned. He had all of his teeth, and they were very white.

I chuckled. "The local palinka is good, and I think safer."

"A wise man," he said. Then, "If you'll forgive me, you have a trace of something foreign in your speech."

I nodded. "I've come here from some distance away."

"And yet, your name is distinctly local."

"Is it?" I said. "I hadn't realized."

He nodded.

"Not surprising," I said after a moment. "I have family from here."

"Family? Or kin?"

In Fenarian, those are different words, with rather more of a difference than in the Northwestern language. "Kin," I said. "Think you might know anyone I might be related to?"

"Hmm. I'll have to think about it. This is a pretty big town, you know."

No, it wasn't. "Yes, it is."

After a moment I said, "No offense to your town, but it stinks."

He smiled. "Yes, I suppose. Believe it or not, after a while you don't notice it at all."

"You can get used to anything, I suppose."

"Indeed."

"Maybe you can tell me something else."

"Sure."

"Why aren't there any women in here?"

His eyes widened. "Women go into taverns where you're from?"

"If they want a drink."

"I see. That, ah, doesn't happen here."

"Why not?"

"Well, because..." He frowned and seemed to be searching for words. "Because it wouldn't be right," he finally said.

I nodded and didn't push it. "What do you do?"

"Beg pardon? Oh. I import and export liquor."

"So the rakia is your fault?"

He smiled and nodded. "I drink it as a sort of penance."

"A man of high moral character, I see."

"Not that high; I'm a trader." He signaled the barmaid and she brought him another. "So, ask me your next question; it seems I am today the man with the answers."

"All right," I said. "Why are the streets so wide?"

"Eh? Are they?"

"Wider than I'm used to. A lot wider."

"Hmmm. Well, the streets you're used to—why are they so narrow?"

"A fair question," I said, "only you claimed to be the one with the answers."

He smiled his smile—it was the sort that makes you think that by smiling he was losing a round. His drink came. He raised it and said, "Welcome to our city and our country, boyore."

I felt my eyebrows climb. "Boyore? Why do you call me that?"

"It's as clear as Doroatya's ankles. You're used to giving orders, and expecting them to be obeyed."

"Am I?" I said. "Interesting."

"Not to mention the rather long piece of steel at your side."

"Yes, I guess that's unusual around here."

"I'll not pass it around, if you don't wish me to; but unless you begin to walk differently, and start looking down a bit more, you can expect the peasants to bow and call you 'my lord' and stand aside when they meet you on the street. But then," he added, "perhaps they'll not meet you at all, what with the streets being so wide."

He laughed a little as if deucedly pleased with his cleverness. I smiled and nodded and sipped my wine.

"Where are you from that women go into bars and streets are narrow?"

"Oh. Sorry, I'd thought it was obvious. I live on the other side of the mountain, the Dragaeran Empire."

"Ah. Yes, I sort of suspected that, but I wasn't sure, and I didn't know if you'd want it known."

"Why not? I can't be the first human to come back here."

"Here? Yes, you're the first one I know of. I've seen a few others in my travels, but they don't stop in Burz. And they don't seem as, well, as aristocratic as you. At least, not until they reach Fenario, or Esania, or Arenthia, and find out they have magic no one else has."

"Mmm. I hadn't thought about that."

"Hadn't you? I assume you have the same sort of magic."

"You seem pretty blasé about magic."

He shrugged. "Not everyone is. You know about the Art we practice; I see signs of it about you. Is it really so different?"

Yes, it was. "No, not really," I said.

He nodded. "I can't tell if you follow the light or the darkness, of course; they, too, aren't as different as many think."

I nodded, wondering what he was talking about. I said, "What generally happens to these people you mention, the ones with the magic no one else has?"

"Usually they set themselves up as minor lordlings until someone, ah, put them down, if you know what I mean. No one has done that around here, though; at least, not in my lifetime. Which is good, because the King never turns his attention this far west, and sometimes the King has to be the one to deal with them?"

I nodded. "Well, if that's what you're worried about, you don't need to. I'm not especially interested in becoming a minor lordling. Or a major one, for that matter."

He studied me. "No, I don't imagine you are." I wasn't at all sure how to take that, so I just let it go past.

We drank for a few minutes, then he said, "It's getting late; I should be going."

I said, "Is there any chance you might be able to find out anything about my people?"

"Sure," he said. "I'll ask a few questions, see what I can learn."

"I'd take that as a great kindness," I said. "Where and when shall I meet you?"

"Right here is good. Say, sometime around noon?"

"Lunch is on me," I told him.

He smiled and stood up. "See you then," he said.

As he walked away, I drank more wine and considered. "What do you suppose he is, Loiosh?"

"Not sure, Boss. I suppose there is always the possibility that he's just what he claims to be."

"No," I said. "There isn't.”

Lefitt: But that's a body!

Boraan: I had already come to the same conclusion, my dear.

Lefitt: But, how long has it been there?

Boraan: Oh, not more than a week, I should say. Two at the outside.

Lefitt: A week? How can it have been here for a week?

Boraan: Well, the servants must have been dusting it, or you would certainly have noticed and spoken to them quite sharply about it.

—Miersen, Six Parts Water Day One, Act I, Scene 1

Loiosh was silent for a moment, then he said, "Okay, Boss. What did you see that I didn't?"

"Not saw; heard. Or rather, what I didn't hear. What he didn't ask."

It took him a few seconds. Then he said, "Oh. Right. He should have asked what you were doing here."

"Exactly.”

"Maybe he's just polite."

"Loiosh, no one who lives in a small, out-of-the-way town can have a conversation with a stranger without asking what brings him there. It defies the laws of nature."

"Which means he knows, or he thinks he does. You're pretty smart for a mammal."

"Thank you ever so much."

"The jhereg, you think?"

"I intend to assume so until I have a reason not to."

"So, then, what about tomorrow?"

"What's your guess, Loiosh?"

"What we should do is be out of here tonight. But knowing you—"

"And then we'd have him after us and not know where we stood. No. I want him where I can keep an eye on him."

"You're the boss, Boss."

I got up and walked out into the stench and the dark streets, mostly to see if he'd have me followed. As soon as we were outside, Loiosh and Rocza took to the air. I didn't need to tell my familiar what I was doing; we'd been together for a while. My rapier tapped reassuringly at my side. I'd had to reduce the weight I carried before trying the mountains, but I still had a few little surprises concealed about my person; I didn't plan on being easy prey.

The street was pretty quiet, and looked entirely different in the dark. Not sinister, but, well, more like it had secrets it wanted to keep. Lights came from the houses, diffused by the oiled paper. Many were entirely dark, either because there was no light within, or because here in the East, where it is so much brighter during the day, they had perfected shutters. I could hear the tap-crunch of my boots against the well-packed stony dirt of the street. The reek from the paper factory had diminished, though it was still present; it had probably seeped into all the walls and the dirt of the road itself.

"Anyone?"

"Not a soul, Boss."

"Good.”

Sometime while I was walking the wind shifted, and the smell, while still present, became easier to bear. In the stillness, I heard the river lapping against the docks not far away, and chittering of insects. I shivered a little.

This was where my mother had come from; or her people, at any rate. Why had they left? Famine? Disease? Tyranny? Powerful enemies? But whatever had made them leave, this is where they were from, and in a sense, this is where I was from.

And it seemed those who wanted to kill me had tracked me here. How nice.

I found that I was fingering the hilt of the dagger in my left sleeve and stopped doing it. I did, however, touch Spellbreaker, wrapped around my left wrist; where there are Dragaerans, there is sorcery. Spellbreaker's presence was reassuring in spite of the gold Phoenix Stone I bore around my neck, which ought to protect me even if I weren't paying attention. When my life is involved, I like over-protection.

Well, if anyone carried a Morganti blade around here, every witch would know about it. And if a Jhereg—or any Dragaeran—showed up, he'd stand out like Dzur Mountain. I'd once been told that my friend Morrolan had been raised somewhere in human lands, and hadn't known he was Dragaeran—just thought he was a very tall human. I'd never asked him if it was true, but I didn't believe it; the differences were too obvious. No, if a Jhereg showed up in town, I'd know it.

I walked to the other end of the town—it wasn't far, maybe an hour's walk. I reached the tavern I'd noticed earlier; it had a small, neat sign showing a small animal I couldn't identify in the dim light. I didn't go in, but made a note of it for later. No one came out as I walked by.

"Hey, Boss, remember a couple of days ago, you said you were getting too comfortable?"

"Yeah, I guess we don't have to worry about that anymore, do we?"

As far as I could tell, the town just stopped; all of a sudden there were no shops, no buildings, just the road going on, parallel to the river. I turned around and walked back. By the time I returned to my inn, the place was pretty quiet and the guy in the blue vest had gone. I went up to my room and slept.

I was awoken the next morning by a horrid light in my eyes, which I eventually figured out was the Furnace; I had neglected to close the shutters. Shutters are much more important in the East than they are back home.

I stumbled out of bed and dressed. I checked the garrote in the collar of my cloak (wondering why I still carried that; I'd never used a garrote in my life, and wasn't even sure I knew how), the throwing knives and shuriken in its lining, and the few daggers I still carried. After some thought, thinking over what Orbahn had said, I left my rapier in the room. I had enough hardware on me without it, and I wanted to see what would happen if I were less overtly dangerous.

Morning: the Furnace slanting down more sharply than my knives; a few kids playing in the street; the occasional woman, with or without a babe in her arms, visiting a shop; lots of people heading off to work in order to produce ugly smells for miles around. I wondered how much paper they produced at that place. They must ship whole barge full of it down the river. Who needed that much paper? And for what?

Loiosh and Rocza took their places on my shoulders— Loiosh taking the left today. I never knew how they picked who was where, and I wouldn't give Loiosh the satisfaction of asking. I had once thought it was a complicated division of labor; now I'm inclined to think they do it just to make me wonder.

As I walked, I gave some thought to how I was going to go about finding my family. Excuse me, my "kin." Two months ago, it would have been easy. I'd have said, "Kragar, find out if I have any family in this village." He'd have made a couple of snide remarks, and a few people would have been bribed, and a few threatened or slapped around, and I'd have had my answers. Now I had to do it myself. I had an image of walking through the area stopping at every peasant's shack and saying, "Ever heard the name 'Merss' before?" I didn't like it much. A few untended kethna wandered around on their undersized cloven hooves, snorting and snuffling and looking for victuals. Presumably, they were owned by various people; I wondered how their owners told them apart. Were kethna smart enough to know where home was? If so, and given their ultimate fate, were they smart enough not to go there?

Across the street, a chubby guy with a fringe of white hair was raising a wooden awning, supported on two posts, and it came to me that this was so people could stand in front of his shop without the light of the Furnace blinding them. I guess I was just beginning to realize how much having the Furnace blazing down affects everything you do. I would have to try to stay aware of that.

I crossed over to him. He gave me the usual merchant appraising glance, the one where he's decided if you might actually buy something. He didn't seem especially excited by me, but managed a nod. Hanging from hooks and sitting on sturdy tables were teapots, coffeepots, hinges, cups, boilers, and even some engraved plates, all of them in that reddish gold color. I warmed to him; I always admire people who can make things.

"You're a tinsmith," I said.

He raised an eyebrow and sniffed. "Hardly, I'm a respectable merchant and a member of the Guild. All of the tinsmiths sell through this shop, or they don't sell around here."

Suddenly I wanted to see how many coffeepots I could shove down his throat. I said, "I see," and continued looking around the shop. He watched me like I was going to steal something. I was tempted to, just on principle.

"Boss, remind me again why you won't kill an Easterner."

"I never said I wouldn't kill an Easterner. I said I won't accept money to kill an Easterner."

"In that case—"

"I am not killing him, and no, you may not eat him even if I do. Besides, that much fat would be bad for you."

I studied the wares, careful not to touch anything, because if he'd said anything about "handling the goods" I would have killed him.

"The Guild," I repeated.

"Yes, young man. So watch your step."

"I'm new in town. What guild is that?"

He sniffed. "The Merchants' Guild, of course."

"Ah. Of course."

"Boss—"

"Hush. I'm working" I gave the guy the sort of smile that means nothing and said, "This is a local Guild, or is it part of a larger Guild throughout the country?"

He gave me what I'm sure he thought was a Penetrating Stare. "Why would you want to know that?"

"Just curious."

"Why do you want to know that?"

"Just curious."

It was interesting, though. Last night, there was someone who had just assumed I was an aristocrat; and now this guy just assumed I was some sort of thug, or criminal. I hate it when people make those kinds of assumptions about me. It makes me want to break their legs.

I said, "Does the name Merss mean anything to you?"

His scowl deepened. "Are you threatening me?"

"No."

"I don't respond to threats, young man."

"That's good, because I don't issue them."

"I think you had best leave my establishment."

Establishment. He had an establishment.

I shrugged and walked out because I didn't think staying would be productive, and because that was probably the last thing he expected me to do.

"That," I told Loiosh, "was one of the more interesting conversations I've had in a life full of interesting conversations."

"Meaning you have no idea what just happened, right?"

"Right. Only something did. Didn't it?"

"Sure, Boss. Is there a reason you think it might be connected with what you're looking for?"

"Loiosh, I mentioned the name of my family and he thought I was threatening him."

He didn't answer.

I walked down the street about ten paces before I was hit with a wave of nostalgia like I hadn't thought I could feel. I was standing in front of a tiny little place, with what looked like a fresh coat of dark green stain on the thin-looking exterior, and no window, and a doorway covered by a thick curtain of pale wool. Hanging from the low eaves were herbs: mistletoe, koelsch, thyme, spinnerseed, eddieberry. My grandfather's shop had looked different, but smelled the same. I stood outside for a moment, feeling the smile on my lips, then pushed aside the curtain and went in.

It was dark inside, a smoky, flickering lamp at either end making the pottery on shelves and plants on hangers jump and twitch. As I stood there, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, the flickering subsided.

The fellow in the shop was nothing like my grandfather. He had one of those faces that looked like someone had grabbed hold of the chin and pulled, with a high domed forehead and a receding hairline to increase the effect. He wore a sweat-stained singlet that had once been blue and loose pantaloons of brown. I couldn't guess his age within thirty years. He looked me up and down with pale brown eyes and an expression that reminded me of the guy I'd just been speaking with. It was obvious he didn't like me. Maybe it was the jhereg on my shoulders. Then again, maybe it was just me. I refrained from breaking his left kneecap and right instep. I didn't even think about it.

He dipped his head in a bow so perfunctory he could have taught Morrolan a few things about being rudely polite, and waited for me to say something. I finally settled on, "Have you any shaba-salt?"

"No," he said.

I paused, then decided on the direct approach. "What's the problem?"

"No problem," he said, tight-lipped. "I don't have any, that's all."

"Not that. Your attitude. What have I done to you? You don't like how I'm dressed or something?"

"You're a witch," he said.

Now, that I got to explain. "Witch" is the only way to translate it, but what he actually used was a Fenarian word, erdergbassor, that means, sort of, "witch who does nasty things to people," or maybe, "witch who studies things nice people don't talk about." Something like that. It was a word I knew, but not one I'd ever expected to hear directed at my sweet, lovable self.

I spoke to my familiar, who had picked up the translation from my mind. "Loiosh? Any ideas?"

"Color me stunned, Boss. Not a clue."

I drew a little circle on the counter with my finger, while looking at the merchant—I call him a merchant because I had trouble thinking of him as a witch. "I've never been called that before," I told him.

"Don't threaten me, young man. I'm a mem—"

"Member of the Guild," I said it with him. "Yeah. So, what is it that makes me a witch?" I asked him, using that same word.

He just glared at me. I wondered how long I could go without needing to hurt someone. It was odd: while surrounded by Dragaerans, I was never tempted to start messing with humans; but here, with no Dragaerans around, the idea didn't bother me a bit. In fact, it was getting more tempting by the minute. The last time I had been in this land, years before, I hadn't met all that many people, but those I'd met had been pleasant. I guess between that and the stories of my grandfather, I'd built it up in my head as some sort of paradise. Yeah, well.

"I'm serious," I said. "What makes you think—"

"Young man," he said, "either you are a fool, or you think I am. I know a familiar when I see one."

Oh. Well. So it was Loiosh after all. Who knew? But there were implications in there that hurt my head to think about. So I said, "All right. Do you know a family named

Merss?"

"The door is that way, young man."

And, once again, it was either walk out the door or use violence. I was sure I'd come up with some good remark to use on him tomorrow; meanwhile I pushed my way past the curtain and back into the street.

The next place was a shoemaker's, and the smell of leather and oils overpowered even the stench of the town. I'll spare you the details; the results were no better. These people just flat out didn't like me. I felt myself starting to get angry, and sat on the feeling; right now that wouldn't do any good. I needed to figure out what was going on.

"Three in a row, Boss. Convinced?"

"Yeah, only I'm not sure what I'm convinced of exactly."

He wasn't able to enlighten me, so I took us back to the inn, glancing at other shops as we walked, but not going in any. The shutters were open this time, and I concluded it must have to do with wind direction, Orbahn wasn't there when I arrived—in fact, I nearly had the place to myself—so I found a corner and a glass of strong red wine (actually, it looked more purple to me) and settled in to wait for him. The wine was decent.

After an hour or so I got a plate of lamb stew with leeks and garlic and a dollop of sour cream, and some thick-crusted bread. An hour after that Orbahn showed up. He didn't waste any time; he looked around, saw me, and came right over.

"And how has your day been?" he asked me, signaling to the barmaid.

"Interesting," I said. He ordered a drink, and I reminded him that I was buying lunch, so he got a bowl of the same stew I was having. "I'm not sure where to begin. Any idea why I might have been called an erdergbassor?"

His eyebrows climbed a little. "Hmmm. Who called you that?"

"The fellow that owns the witchcraft supply shop."

"Oh. Him." He shrugged. "I'll talk to him."

"No, no. Don't bother. I'm just curious. He seemed to think, either because my familiar is a jhereg, or because I have a familiar, that—"

"It's because your familiars are jhereg," he said. "A lot of people here think that means you follow the dark way, that those who follow the light have birds or cats, occasionally ferrets. Not reptiles."

"Oh. Odd."

"It is odd. It's a strictly local belief."

"This is a peculiar town."

He shrugged. "Just be careful here."

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"I mean, don't ask too many questions."

"Why? I came here to find some things out."

"I know. But, well, just be careful, all right? There are people here—"

"The Guild?"

He stopped in mid-sentence. "Ah," he said. "You've found out about that?"

"I've found out it exists, and that it isn't like any other guild I've ever heard of."

He rubbed his chin. "I was born here, you know."

"All right."

"And I need to do business here."

"I understand."

"If you get on the wrong side of the Guild, don't expect me to help you. Or even say hello when we pass on the street."

"All right. That's clear enough. But, until then, what can you tell me about it?"

He hesitated, then shrugged. "It's old, it's powerful."

"And all-inclusive? That is, no merchant is going to survive without being in the Guild?"

He nodded.

I said, "And this is strictly local?"

"Other towns have Guilds; most of them do. But this one is, ah, unique."

"How did it come about?"

"I don't know; it's been around as long as anyone can remember."

"Who is in charge?"

"There's a leader of the Guild. His name is Chayoor."

"Of course it is. Where does he live?"

"Why?"

"If I'm going to avoid trouble with the Guild, that would seem like the place to start."

He shook his head. "It's up to you, but I wouldn't. I think you ought to stay as far from it as you can."

I sipped my wine, wondering just how far I could trust this guy. Loiosh sort of shifted on my shoulder; he was wondering too. I decided not very far, for now. I don't trust people easily. I guess that surprises you.

"All right," I said. "I'll keep that in mind. I really just want to find my family, if there are any still here. Then I plan to move on. There isn't a lot for me in this town."

He nodded. "I had no luck with that," he said. "Wish I could help you."

"Thanks for trying."

He nodded. "I think this town isn't good for you. I don't mean that as a threat," he said quickly, I guess seeing some look on my face. "I have nothing against you. It's just a warning. If you keep poking around, it's going to get less comfortable. I'm sort of outside of things, I'm not involved as much as a lot of others because I travel so much. I don't have to be as, well, protective of the interests of the town. But I'm still part of it, know what I mean?"

"In fact," I said, "I haven't the least idea. But I'm curious."

"Mmm," he said. He drank about half of his glass, showing no more expression than if it had been water, and looked thoughtful. "I guess what I'm saying is that I can warn you, but if you get into trouble, I can't protect you."

"Oh," I said. "All right. Fair enough. I've only spoken to merchants, so far. I trust the common folk are not in the Guild. I'll ask among them later."

He shook his head. "You'll do as you wish, of course. But I think it would be a mistake."

"You think the Guild will notice?"

"Unless you're pretty careful. And you do stand out here, you know."

There was something amusing about the idea that I, a human, could blend into a crowd of Dragaerans without being seen, but here, among my own people, I stood out. Still, he was probably right.

"Why are you helping me?" I asked him. Sometimes a blunt question can shock someone into an honest answer.

He shrugged. "You seem an all-right fellow. If you saw a stranger going for a stroll in a direction where you knew there was a nasty bog, wouldn't you mention it?"

Probably not. "I suppose so," I said.

"Well, Loiosh? What do you think?" "Boss?" "Is he warning me away for my own good, or because he doesn't want me learning

something?" "How should I know? Could be both." "Mmmm. Good point."

"Can I buy you another drink?" I asked him.

"No, I'm fine. I need to be running anyway. I need to make sure the people preparing my next shipment aren't lightening the burden by drinking it all." He grinned and stood up.

"Okay," I said. "Thanks for the information, and the advice. I owe you." Exactly

what I owed him was still to be determined. He made a dismissing gesture and walked out of the inn. I sat there for a while, watching my fingers draw circles in the moisture on the table.

One thing just wouldn't leave my head: When I had asked the tradesman if he knew anyone named Merss, he had thought I was threatening him. That was just too intriguing to pass up. Sitting and thinking about it would tell me nothing.

Presently I got up and went out.

Magistrate: What first brought him to your attention? Lefitt: His remark about starting the healing process. Boraan: When those in power wish to start the healing process, my lord, it means there are things they don't want you to find out. Lefitt (hastily): Present company excepted, of course! Boraan: Oh yes, to be sure. Lefitt: May we offer Your Lordship oishka and water?

—Miersen, Six Parts Water Day Two, Act IV, Scene 5

The smell wasn't as bad. There was a wind from the west and it was cold, too cold for mid-spring. I pulled my cloak around me and thought about going back to my room to get warmer stuff, but then I'd have to put up with remarks from Loiosh, and it didn't seem worth it.

"Boss?" "Yeah?" "What now?" "Now I find someone who'll talk to me." "So, you don't trust him?" "Yes. No. I don't know. I need to know more. And, dammit, I want to find them." "Why?" "Loiosh—" "No, Boss, really. When we came over the mountain, it was something to do since we

were here anyway. Now it's become this thing you have to do. Why?"

Part of his job is asking me the hard questions.

While I was trying to think up a good answer, my feet carried me over to the pier. If you've lost track, it was the middle of the day. The factory across the river was belching gray smoke into the air. The wind was coming from the mountains (which I'm told is unusual) so at least the stench wasn't bad. People— not many, mostly mothers with children in arms—were walking along the streets behind me. I didn't worry about them, because Loiosh was—

"Someone's coming, Boss. Woman, doesn't seem threatening, and doesn't seem to be walking up to you in particular."

"Okay.”

I didn't turn around, and presently there were footfalls behind and to my right. Soft-soled shoes that quietly "swooshed," probably dark skin or something like it. I saw her out of the corner of my eye, about ten feet away, and turned and nodded. She nodded back. She was around my age, maybe a bit older. Her eyes, which I noticed first, were an intriguing gray; her hair was black, I suspected dyed, and fell in long ringlets well past her shoulders. Her nose was straight, her form very pleasant, curvy; some time in my past I'd have been interested, and that part of me must not have been completely dead or I'd not have noticed. She wore long silvery ear-rings and several rings on her fingers. Her dress was forest green, with a low, square neckline, and large obvious ties down the front; it didn't quite reach her ankles and the red ruffle of her flaisl* was just visible below the hem. She wore slippers the same color as her eyes.

I turned back to studying the smoke from the factory. She seemed to be doing the same. After a few minutes she said, "Looking for a little fun?"

"No thanks," I said. "I hate fun. Never wanted any. Even as a child, I'd run and hide if it looked like someone wanted me to have fun. I was pleased to grow up, because now I can go through the rest of my life without ever having fun."

She laughed perfunctorily then gave a sort of sigh and continued watching the factory. I figured her work-day would likely begin when the place closed for the evening.

"Is the Guild in charge of your profession too?" I asked her.

You never know how tags will react to questions about their work. Sometimes they'll talk about it the way you'd talk about the prospective harvest if the frost didn't come early; sometimes they'd give a sort of haughty glance as if figuring you were getting excited by asking; sometimes they'd become angry as if any question about how they made their daily bread was more personal than the act itself—which I guess maybe it was.

She just said, "The Guild runs everything."

"I was getting that impression. I'm Vlad."

She looked at me, then looked back across the river. "Well met, Vlad. I'm Tereza. What in the name of the Three Sisters would bring you to this crappy little town?"

There were lines in the corners of her eyes and on her forehead that she hadn't quite managed to conceal with her makeup, but I guess the makeup wasn't expected to function in full light. The lines made her more attractive.

*A flaisl, it turns out, is a warm, abstract-pattern fabric used by prairie prostitutes for colorful yet comfortable petticoats during the cold winters. Thanks to K. Christie for finding that out for me.—SB

"I came for the aroma."

A smile flickered quickly.

"In fact," I went on, "I've been standing here asking myself the same question. Mostly, I'm passing through on the way to somewhere else. Or I guess from somewhere else. But I understand I have kin somewhere around here, and I'd like to find them."

"Oh. Who?"

"The name is Merss."

She turned her head and gave me a long, measuring look. I waited.

"I can't help you," she said at last.

I nodded. "I'm beginning to suspect they aren't here at all," I said, because a good lie can loosen tongues better than a bad truth.

"I know who would be will—that is, able to tell you many things about this town," she said.

"Oh? Well, that's the most hopeful thing I've heard today."

She hesitated, then said, "It'll cost you."

I looked at her.

She sighed. "Oh, all right. There's a public house called the Cellar Mouse."

"Yes, I saw it."

"In back of it are stables. Most nights, there will be a man there named Zollie. He's the coachman for Count Saekeresh. He knows everyone and everything, and he's the Lord's coachman so no one can touch him; or at least so he thinks. Get him liquored up a bit and he'll tell you anything."

I dug an imperial out, walked over and put it into her palm. She did that thing people do when judging the weight of a coin and said, "Is it gold?"

"Pure. Don't spend it all in one place."

She laughed. "I owe you, Vlad. Fenario, here I come!" She grinned and kissed my cheek. She was nearly as tall as I was. She was much more attractive when she was smiling. I watched as she walked away, a nice spring in her step.

After a bit, I took myself over to the Cellar Mouse, which was a lot like the Pointy Hat (as I'd started calling the other place in my head) except the room was longer and the ceiling a bit higher. The tables were all small and round. After the usual reserved but not-unfriendly nods, I took a glass of wine to a small table and set in to nursing it until the evening.

The place started filling up quickly as dark came, mostly with men who had both the look and the smell of the factory across the river. There were also a few girls, all of whom wore gowns with obvious ties down the front and ankles uncovered. Sometimes one would leave with a workman, heading into the back. A couple of them looked at me, but none came over.

I studied the people, for lack of anything else to do, and worked on memorizing the faces for no reason except that it's good practice. Eventually, I made my way out the door and around back. The stable was directly to the rear about fifty feet, and, from what I could see, connected to a sort of paddock. Outside of it was a tall coach, and even in the dim light that leaked out of the inn it seemed to glisten. There was a marking of some sort on the door, and no horses were attached. Where there was a coach, there would be a coachman. And where there's a coachman, there are stories. And where there are stories, there are answers to questions, and maybe even the right ones.

I went in.

It smelled of fresh hay, old hay, wet hay, moldy hay, and manure. It was a big improvement. There were ten stalls, four of which were occupied by horses of various colors and sizes, the fifth by a skinny fellow wearing black, with a high-domed forehead over thick brows, making him look, well, a bit ridiculous. His hands were folded over his stomach, and there were several odd white scars crisscrossing the backs of them. He sat on a low stool, and his eyes were closed, but opened as I came closer; I saw no trace of sleep in them, nor sign of drunkenness—the latter being unusual, if you believe all you've heard about coachmen.

"If you've come for a ride to the manor," he said in a clear voice, somewhat higher pitched than you'd guess from looking at him, "you're too late. If you've come for a story, you're too early. If you've come to buy me a drink, your timing could not be improved."

"I have questions and money," I said.

"Make the money liquid, and I'll answer the questions."

"Good enough. What do you wish?"

"Wine. White wine. And the better it is, the better your answers will be."

"I'll be back directly."

He nodded and closed his eyes.

He opened them a few minutes later when I returned with his wine as well as something red for myself. He sniffed his, drank it, nodded, and said, "Grab a stool." There were a few low three-legged stools like a cobbler uses; I took one and sat on it opposite him. The horses shifted around, and one of them eyed me suspiciously as I walked in front of him. Or her. Or it. Or maybe it was looking at Loiosh and Rocza.

I sat down and said, "My name is Vlad."

He nodded. "They just call me Zollie, Kahchish, or Chish." He took some more wine. "Good choice. All right, Vlad. You had questions?"

"Many, many, many."

His smile was friendly. I believed it, provisionally. So, where to start?

"Do you know a family called Merss?"

"Sure," he said. "About six miles north, the little road past the walnut trees. Big white house that looks like it's been added to a lot. Unless you mean the cousins; they moved away some years ago. I don't know where, but probably to Fenario. The city, I mean."

"Oh," I said. "Thanks."

"It's about a half-hour ride."

"I don't ride."

He looked genuinely startled. "You've never been on a horse?"

"I have been; that's why I don't ride."

"Mmmm. Very well. What else?"

"Why wouldn't anyone else answer my question about them?"

"They're scared of the Guild."

"Yeah," I said. "The Guild. That would be my next question."

"It's everyone's question. Mine too. No one quite knows how it came to be what it is."

"You must know some of the history."

He finished his wine and held the mug out to me. "Some," he said.

"Keep it," I told him. "I'll be back with a jug."

"I'll be here," he said.

The place had filled up a bit, so it took me about ten minutes to get back. I handed him the jug and settled down again. "All right," I said. "The Guild."

"Yes. The Guild." He studied me for a bit. "Why the interest?"

"I kept running into them while I was trying to learn about the Merss family."

He studied me more carefully. "They're kin, aren't they?"

"I always thought I took after my father."

"The way your nostrils flare. Most of them have that. Is that what brings you to Burz?"

"Yes and no," I said.

He waited for me to continue, and when I didn't he just shrugged.

"Fenario is old kingdom, Vlad. Very old. Two thousand years, the same people, in the same land."

I didn't comment on how short two thousand years would seem to Morrolan or Aliera, much less to Sethra; I just nodded.

He continued, "The borders have shifted a bit over the years, and other things have changed." I nodded, because he seemed to expect it. He continued. "For the last few hundreds of years, the King hasn't been too concerned with the outlying provinces. He's done what he's had to make sure the borders are secure, and other than that, pretty much left it up to the local Count to do as he would."

"Except for his taxes, I suppose."

"Sometimes yes, sometimes no."

"Mmm."

He shrugged. "Believe me, or not. As often as not, the King doesn't seem to care if the taxes are collected. At least, this far west. I suppose if he demands too much, he'll only encourage smuggling."

"All right," I said.

"So when things happened, we were on our own."

"What things?"

"The story is that the Count, the old Count, my Lord's grandfather, went off his head. Started thinking all the witches were trying to kill him or something."

"Were they?"

"Eventually."

"Hmmm."

"I don't know the whole story, of course. No one does. But somehow, the local witches split themselves into those who wanted to hide from the Count until his madness passed, and those who wanted to do something."

"Something like...?"

"I don't know. Kill him? Cure him? What's the difference?"

"You remind me of some people I know."

He poured more wine into his mug. "So there was a long time—ten years? twenty? thirty?—when all the Count was doing was fighting witches. There are songs that list the diseases he contracted and was cured of. They probably aren't true either, but I imagine he was pretty busy. Still, things had to be managed, so it ended up with the Merchants' Guild more or less running things."

"Well, and later Counts? Didn't they have anything to say about that?"

"As I understand it, the old Count's son settled things for good and all."

"How did he do that?"

"Made a deal. You don't hurt me, I won't hurt you. Usually the Count is happy to get his silver and sit at home complaining about poachers."

"Strange."

"It's a strange town."

"Yes, you can smell that much."

He nodded. "The peasants don't like the stench from the factory, and they don't like all of their sons leaving the land to work indoors, but the factory is how the Count gets his silver, so the merchants make sure nothing interferes with it. They don't want the Count complaining to Fenario, you see, because there just might someday be a King who actually cares what's going on."

"A strange town," I repeated. "What's the difference between those witches who fought the Count and those who didn't?"

"Eh?"

"I mean, how has that changed?"

"Oh. I've no idea. No one except witches ever talk about it, and I've never studied the Art. Some say that those who were loyal to the Count only have birds and mice as familiars. I don't know if that's true."

"Is any of what you've told me true?"

He considered that. "I'm telling you a story. If you want history, go, ah, elsewhere. I don't know if it's true. We pass these things on, we coachmen."

"So, none of what you're telling me might actually have happened?" "I'm sure some of it is related to what happened, somehow."

I noticed I hadn't had any wine in a while so I drained about half of my mug while I thought things over.

"Then I take it," I said slowly, "that the Merss family is associated with the, ah, the dark forces of the Art."

He nodded.

"Hmmm. And yet, they're still around."

"A few. They're stubborn."

I smiled. That pleased me.

"And," he added, "They mostly keep to themselves, and don't offend anyone."

"Just like me," I said dryly.

He either missed the irony, or chose to ignore it. "So then, Vlad, have I answered all of your questions?"

I laughed. "Sure. And generated a hundred more."

"That's how it usually works."

"The Count, how is he called?"

"My lord will do."

"No, no. His name."

"Oh. Veodric. His family name is Saekeresh."

"Thank you. Tell me, Zollie, what brings you here?"

"I was born here," he said.

"No, I mean, why are you at the inn, instead of at the manor with your Good Count Saekeresh Veodric?"

He laughed. "Good Count Veodric, aside from being a bad-tempered spoiled child who can speak of nothing but his aches and pains, is three and eighty years old," he said. "Once a year he leaves the manor to attend the Planting Festival, and once a year he leaves to judge at the horse show. This isn't either of those days, and the company here is better."

I looked around. "The horses?" He smiled and winked at me. "Oh," I said. "Expecting someone?"

"Sooner or later," he said. "Then I'll leave you with the wine and my thanks." "It has been a pleasure, Merss Vlad. I trust I'll see you again." "I hope so," I told him. "I'll have more questions after I've thought things over." "And more wine, I trust." "And more wine." It had gotten late while we spoke, and there seemed to be little sound coming from

the inn. I made my way back across the small village, Loiosh and Rocza keeping close watch, because I was suddenly nervous. Nevertheless, nothing happened; I made it back and was let in to the Pointy Hat by the host, Inchay, who gave me a sour look (the place was empty; I guess he'd been about to retire).

"Well, that was useful, eh, Boss?" "What are you being sarcastic about now? It was useful." "How? He said everything he told you might be made up!" "True or not, there are many who believe it." "Oh, well, everything's solved then." "He also said there's truth behind it, somewhere." "Good luck finding it." "Oh, shut up. I'm tired."

Some pleasures never get old, and taking off your boots at the end of a long day is one of those. I took off my cloak and outer layer of clothing, remembered to close the shutters, and stretched out on the bed. I was pleased that I hadn't had cause to regret leaving my sword here, and I decided not to do that ever again.

"Well, Boss, I hope it's progress. I'd like to be done and out of here.” "This town makes you nervous, does it?" "What, it doesn't make you nervous?" "Yeah, I guess it does at that. Good night."

Lefitt: But the fact is, that is the body of Lord Chartist Magistrate: The Gods! It is impossible! Boraan (to Lefitt): My love, you make the classic error. That is not a fact, that is a conclusion drawn from facts. Lefitt: You mean, it is not Chartis? Boraan: Oh, no. It is certainly Chartis. I was merely objecting to your choice of words.

—Miersen, Six Parts Water Day Two, Act IV, Scene 3

I remember thinking, the night before, how nice it was to sleep in an actual bed. It was still nice.

I slept late, and felt rested when I got up and stumbled down the hall to splash water on my face and so on. I returned to the room, dressed, and took a bit of extra care looking over my weapons as I strapped them on and secured them. Then I went down to eat bread and cheese and drink coffee. A lot of bread and a lot of cheese—I was going to be walking again today. Not so much coffee; foul, nasty, bitter stuff made bearable only by heavy cream and glops of honey.

It was still morning when I set out. I stood outside of the Pointy Hat (I still hadn't heard what the locals called it) and sent Loiosh scouting to find a road south. It took him about five minutes. I followed his directions around a three-story red brick building that I guessed to be some sort of merchants' exchange, and started walking, pacing myself. Loiosh rejoined me, on my right shoulder this time, and had a conversation with Rocza that was none of my business.

The morning was fine and clear; the sky a bright, clear blue dotted with puffy bits of white. That was going to take some time to get used to. It came to me that over the last couple of days I had been half-consciously avoiding looking up. If you've never been in a place where all of a sudden the sky looks entirely different from what you're used to you probably won't understand, but it messes with your head. It makes you think of those stories about people who step through holes in a cave wall and find themselves in Upside Down Land or Walk Backward Land or Everything Too Big Land.

Or Mud Land. I was glad there hadn't been a lot of rain lately; I hate walking through mud.

A wagon, pulled by a young and spry-looking horse—at least, it seemed young and spry to me—passed me going the other way. The peasant gave me a hesitant half nod, which I returned. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat. Lots of the people I'd seen in town had worn hats. The Furnace again, I imagine. Maybe I should get myself a hat. The Furnace was bright on my right side.

"Should I get a hat, Loiosh?"

"Yeah, Boss. It'll give me something to play with when I'm bored.”

Okay, skip the hat.

There was a small hut, probably a farmhouse, set back a long ways from the road. Why build so small when there is so much room? Were there laws about it? If so, why?

The Furnace had climbed up noticeably higher in the sky, and I was starting to sweat a little. I stopped, opened a water bottle, and drank, then poured some into my palm for Loiosh and Rocza. Rocza still couldn't drink out of my palm without tickling me with her tongue.

I passed a few clumps of trees—thin, with the branches far over my head and forming a high awning—but other than that, there were just the gently rolling farmlands, like an ocean in all directions, with stuff growing in neat rows. Sometimes there would be something that was almost a hill, and there the rows would be along the hill, rather than up and down it, which looked to me as if someone went to a lot of extra work, but no doubt there were reasons having to do with the sort of witchcraft all peasants knew in this land.

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 outbuildings 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, 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 I hat 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. . . . High on the list of the steminastria's natural enemies must be itself, when considering its reckless disregard for the size and characteristics of its predators, even when based on its own experiences…

—Oscaani: Fauna of the Middle South: A Brief Survey, Volume 6, Chapter 17

Boraan (determined): Search! Hunt! Find it! First Student (frightened): What if it isn't anywhere? Lefitt (calm): Then it will take rather longer.

—Miersen, Six Parts Water Day Two, Act III, Scene 5

When I woke up, I hurt.

My shoulders, my arms, my back, my legs.

Why my legs? I don't know. What do I look like, a physicker?

I lay in bed moaning for what seemed a long time. If the Jhereg had found me then, they'd have had an easy target. I'm not even sure I'd have minded.

Eventually I moaned, moved, moaned, sat up, moaned, swung my legs down to the floor, and moaned.

"If I so much as suspect you are even thinking about laughing, by Verra's tits and toenails, Loiosh, I will—"

"Never entered my mind, Boss"

Putting on my boots was a test of my manhood; I just barely passed. Then I moaned some more. Eventually, I made my way to the stairs, and then down them, one at a time, slowly.

"Boss, how far can you go?"

"As far as I have to."

Inchay looked up. "Coffee?"

"Brandy," I said. "The foulest you have."

He looked startled, but didn't argue. I took the cup, downed it in one shot, and shook my head. "That's better," I said. "Now I'll have some coffee." I made my way over to a table and sat down.

After about an hour of drinking coffee I started to feel like maybe I could move. I mentally ran through the inventory of witchcraft supplies I had with me. Not many, but they'd do, and I didn't feel like going back to the shop in town and trying to actually purchase anything; I'd either kill the first merchant who looked at me wrong, or, worse, be unable to.

Okay, I had what I needed; I didn't doubt my ability to make the spell work. The only question was: Where should I do it? I didn't want to cast right there at the inn, because I had to take the amulet off, and it was bad enough giving the Jhereg a chance—slim but present—of finding the area where I was; handing them the inn I was staying at was just making their life a little too easy. I could maybe find a place out of town, but being surrounded, by people—humans—was part of my protection.

I hated that I had to do this; that I was being forced to take this risk, just because of blisters and stupid body aches that I gotten—

No, no.

Not going to be able to do any sort of spell while having dismemberment fantasies. The Art involves channeling and controlling emotion, but the emotion needs to correspond to the spell, and the emotions I was feeling right then didn't have a whole lot to do with healing.

I remembered pleasant days with Cawti, which made me a bit melancholy—okay, maybe more than a bit—but that's always a good cure for rage. I thought about what went wrong, and what went right, and made stupid plans in my head to win her back. Funny, that; they always involved rescuing her, when I knew damned well that rescuing her had been one of the problems. No one likes being rescued. The only thing worse is, well, not being rescued.

So, yeah, I played tricks with my own head until I felt like maybe I could do a Working, and by the time I'd done that, I knew where I could do it, too. And, besides, the thought made me chuckle. Loiosh would have a lot to say about it, and that made me chuckle too.

"What are you planning, Boss?"

"Just a spell, Loiosh. You'll see."

I stood up and made my way—still slowly and painfully, but maybe a little better— out of the door, and began walking down the street. Slowly.

"Loiosh, I hurt."

"We can stop for cheese."

"Oh, shut up.”

Eventually, I made it to the other end, to the other inn, and went into the stable. The stable-boy was there; he seemed to be in his early twenties, and had deep-set eyes and thin lips. He said, "Greetings, my lord, may I—" He stopped and stared at his hand, into which I had just placed three silver coins. "My lord?"

I gestured to the stable. "I need to use the space there for about an hour."

"My lord?"

"Yes?"

"The stable?"

I nodded.

"You need to use ..."

"The space. Don't let anyone in. For an hour."

He looked at me, a thousand questions on his lips, then at the coins in his hand, then said, "Ah, the horses—"

"Will not be harmed." He had a sense of responsibility. How about that? "I won't touch them, or even go near them."

He heard the ring of truth in my voice, or the ring of metal in his hand, or something. He nodded abruptly. "Yes, my lord."

I added a fourth coin. "And there's no need to mention this to anyone."

"Of course not, my lord. An hour, you said?"

"An hour."

He bowed clumsily, and I went into the stable and locked it after myself.

"Here?"

"Why not?"

"How can you defend your self here?"

"I'm hoping I won't need to."

"Um, going to let me in on this?" He was genuinely nervous; I could tell because Rocza seemed jumpy.

"Look, chum, what exactly are we worried about?"

"The Jhereg finding you."

"Right. Now, either they already know where I am, in which case it's pointless to worry about it, or they don't. If they don't, then, if they get lucky, they'll be able to trace me while I have the amulet off doing the witchcraft spell. If they trace me, what will they do?"

"Uh... kill you?"

"They'll have to come to Burz to do it."

"Well, yeah."

"Know any Dragaerans liable to have this little Eastern town memorized enough to teleport to it?"

"Probably not, Boss. Going to bet your life that some sorceress from the Left Hand can't work around that?"

"No, but I'll bet my life that if an assassin does show up, I'll be ready. I'm doing a spell, not falling asleep. I'm in the middle of an open space. There's no way he can come at me without you seeing him.”

"And if he's invisible?"

"Look around."

"What?"

"Horses, Loiosh. They'll smell him. Keep an eye on the horses during the spell. If the horses suddenly get jumpy, and start looking where there isn't anyone, I'll stop the spell and, ah, kill him." I made a mental note to make up more Nesiffa powder; I didn't mention to Loiosh that I was out of it.

"Boss, sometimes I wonder about you. Okay, and if they track you, but don't come immediately?"

"They'll be across town from where I am, with plenty of time for people to notice that there's an 'elf in town, and I'll no doubt hear about it."

"No doubt?"

"And they want it Morganti, Loiosh. Morganti. The Jhereg won't he happy with anything less. There is no chance, none that they can bring a Morganti weapon into a town full of witches without creating an uproar the likes of which this town has never seen."

"And then, sometimes, I don't even wonder."

"Heh.”

"Go ahead, then."

"Glad to have your permission."

I cleared an area of hay, because burning the place down would have attracted unnecessary attention to myself as well as disrupting the ritual; not to mention breaking my promise not to harm the horses.

I lit three candles—two white, and one black—then removed the amulet and carefully separated the two parts. The gold I replaced around my neck; the black I set into my pouch. Once I closed that pouch—I'd crafted it myself—the stone might as well have been a hundred miles away.

I laid out what few things I'd need: herbs, a tube of purified water. I didn't have a brazier with me, but I didn't need one for this.

As I combined the salve with purified water—just a drop— I considered the nasty blisters on my fingers, and thought about what my fingers would be like without them, imagined them healing with a chant that came from inside my body painful muscles unknotting working past the resistance because it cannot stand up to me I am Taltos Vladimir and the power is mine and the body is mine it will do as I will keep at as long as my heart continues to drive the blood mixing with the salve and the fingers inside worked them over and understanding the body is the key to opening the doorway of knowledge of all things within and without a pause in the constant drone in the ears full of my own voiceless calling to a place that is here and also not hearing it again and again becoming part of my own fingertips as they clench against the heel of my hand, unwinding and yielding now, flowing faster as they tap the heel and heal and hear and see and smell the damp moldy straw of the stable in the flickering light of the candles as I stopped.

I took a deep breath, and, my hands trembling, removed the piece of the amulet from my pouch, re-attached it, and replaced it around my neck.

"Anything, Loiosh?"

"I'm not sure, Boss. I thought I felt something for a minute, but I can't be sure. It was subtle. Someone good, if it was anything at all."

"You blocked it, then. I didn't feel anything."

"I blocked you from it, Boss, so it wouldn't mess up the ritual. I don't know if I blocked it from you. I don't know if there was anything to block.”

"All right. If the Jhereg could find a witch at all, I doubt it would be someone good."

As spells go, that one was pretty easy; there isn't much in witchcraft that comes easier than convincing your body to do what it wants to do anyway. By the time my equipment was put away in my pack, the blisters had already started to heal, and the general aches in my body were noticeably improved. I still didn't like the idea of fighting anyone, but I figured I could probably do it if I had to. Of course, I paid a price; I was pretty exhausted and my head was fuzzy, but it was a reasonable tradeoff.

Best of all, no assassins showed up to put a nice shine on my epidermis during the process; my remarks to Loiosh notwithstanding, interrupting a spell to fight are neither easy nor fun. I have, a couple of times, actually performed a spell in the middle of a fight, the way sorcerers do. I don't recommend it, and I really hope I'll never have to do it again.

I gave the boy another silver and a smile as I left, shaky but much improved.

"What now, Boss?"

"Hey, I'm up for anything, as long as it doesn't require moving or thinking."

"So, no moving then, but other than that, just as usual."

"After I've worked that out, I'll probably swat you for it."

The walk back across town to the inn seemed very long indeed. And odd. Things always look different when you've just exhausted yourself with a Working, even a minor one; sometimes, I've never figured out exactly when, the effect is amplified: edges are fuzzy, people seem to blur into the background of whatever they're near. Any reflective surface seems shinier and texturing moves and shifts. There are some witches who believe that in this state you can see profound truths that are normally concealed. Some of them devote themselves, not to the Workings, but to the aftereffects, and reveal hidden secrets of the ages.

I think it's just that your brain is tired and you aren't thinking right.

I made a life-enemy during that walk, too. I think he must have been about six years old, and he was throwing a wooden ball against a house—presumably his—making "thunk-splot" "thunk-splot" sounds as it struck the wall then the street. He missed it, and it rolled across the street right in front of me, and from there down into a gutter and away down the street. I was considerably past it when I realized that I could easily have stopped it, picked it up, and tossed it back to him, and around the time I was finally reaching the Hat it came to me that he had been glaring at me. I actually thought about going back and apologizing, but the explanation would have been beyond my powers so I didn't.

Oddly, I don't remember anything about the smell of the town during the long, long trek; which may indicate something or other. I went to the door and walked through it; the host gave me a sort of look, but I wasn't quite aware of it until I was past him and climbing the long, long, long flight of stairs up to my room, where I collapsed on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The bed felt wonderful, and the ceiling looked remarkably interesting, with all sorts of odd texturing that I could almost see moving if I squinted just a bit.

I wasn't in need of sleep. I was just mentally and physically exhausted. There's a difference, you know. Considering that difference is the last thing I remember for an hour or two.

Naps don't usually do much for me; the few times I've tried napping—when I was with Cawti, who felt about them the way a cat does—they always left me feeling groggy. But that one seemed to do the trick. At any rate, the world wasn't fuzzy anymore when I woke up, and I felt like I could move a bit.

I went back down to the jug-room. Inchay explained that he didn't keep coffee this late in the day. I explained that I wished to drink coffee. Presently coffee appeared.

Inchay had his back to me, and the thought came out of nowhere: What an idiot. He shouldn't have his back to an enemy.

I pondered that for a little while. You know a thought like that comes from somewhere, but that doesn't mean it's reliable. Yes, it could be my subconscious telling me it had noticed something about that guy. It could just as easily be my paranoia at work, combined with some of the nasty looks and remarks he'd given me, starting with his absurd idea, when I'd first walked in, that I take Loiosh and Rocza out.

I mean, I knew I didn't like him much; but that wasn't sufficient to convince me he was working against me. To the left, though, I certainly wasn't about to turn my back on him.

When you get a tip like that from your subconscious, there's as much danger in paying it too much heed as too little. You can't ignore it, but you can't let it distract you, either.

When he turned around, naturally, I was no longer looking at him.

Okay, we have a Guild of merchants, unlike any guild Noish-pa told me could exist. No, Noish-pa isn't infallible, but it's enough to make me think there is something very odd going on here.

Then you've got Count Saekeresh Veodric: landowner, and paper factory owner. In the Empire, to have an aristocrat owning a factory wasn't worth a raised eyebrow, but from everything I understood, it was unusual in the East. For one thing, I guess, there were very few factories of any kind, so perhaps I was putting too much weight on that. Still, what was between him and the Guild? Cooperation? Competition? Hostility mitigated by a truce, armed or unarmed? There had to be something.

And then, that strange matter of "light" and "dark" witchcraft. That just made no sense at all. If there was anything to it, I needed to know what; and if there wasn't, I needed to know why it was commonly believed that there was.

How did good old Inchay here fit in, if at all? And Orbahn. He had some part, in this too; I was sure of it.

And then, there was the Jhereg; probably not involved in this, but never, ever to be forgotten; I did not want my last sight to be the point of a Morganti dagger. I shuddered.

Someone had brutally killed my mother's family, and at least one of those parties was responsible, or knew who was responsible.

Well, okay, those were the questions I knew about now; efforts to answer them would naturally generate others, but at least I had a place to start.

I sat there and drank my coffee and made plans.

Ha.

You have to understand, looking back on things, that's pretty funny. But it's true; I made plans, just as if I were going to carry them out, just as if no one else could be making plans at the same time. Do you even care what they were? Could it possibly matter, all the things I would have done if...

If, if, if.

If the world was what I wanted it to be, instead of what it is.

Pointless. If the world was what I wanted it to be, I'd still be married. I'd never have gotten involved with the Jhereg in the first place, because I'd never have had the need or the desire to. Instead, I'd be...what? Count Szurke, safe in my manor near the lake, fishing and having hunting parties, with Cawti on my arm discussing the latest fashions from B'nari Street? No, I couldn't see that either; and, as I said, it's pointless.

When you've been paid to kill a man, you have to learn everything you can about him; there's not a lot of value in learning about what he might be, or you wish he were. Do that, and all you'll get is Fiscom's Honor, which, if you haven't heard the term before, means having your name added to the list cut into the tall, wide marble blocks around the Executioner's Star.

You look at what is, and if you don't know what is, you make it your business to find out. And sometimes that, too, turns out to be just another offering on the altar of the futility deities—the ones who make the crops fail.

So, yeah, I sat there and drank coffee and made plans. Just as if. Loiosh was still tense; I could feel him watching the door, and Rocza kept shifting and bouncing on my left shoulder.

But I didn't let it bother me; I was working. Turning my anger into decision, decision into intention, intention into plan. I was going to learn who was behind this by going in a neat, orderly way; I had it figured out how to get the information from those who must have it, so I could decide just exactly who was deserving of what I intended to do.

An hour or two must have gone by while I went over it in my mind—or, actually, sub vocalized it to Loiosh, who ignored it; just because I think better when I'm talking. Finally I said, "Okay, I've got it."

"Whatever you say."

"Our friend Inchay first, because I don't expect to get anything from him."

"I like your expectations, Boss. Stay with that, and you won't be dis—"

"Orbahn next, if he can be found."

"Which you don't expect."

"Probably not.”

"So far, it's perfect."

I took a quick inventory of my body, of the effect of the Working. The blisters were gone, and the muscle aches were manageable. I got up, threw a few coins to Inchay, and said, "I'm looking for a witch."

"There's a shop just down the street where they get their supplies. I'm sure Yulio could direct you to someone."

"Uh huh. Who do you know?"

He spread his hands. I didn't believe him, but I figured I could come back to him later. "Okay," I said. "Any idea where I can find Orbahn?"

"Haven't seen him."

I waited without saying anything, because that makes people uncomfortable. Eventually he added, "I imagine he'll be in later."

"Good work, Boss. So far, everything's going just as you exp—"

"Shut up.”

"All right," I said. "Where is the Guild hall?"

His eyes narrowed a little. "The Guild hall," he repeated.

I waited.

"Turn right when you leave. On this street about two hundred feet down. Two-story building painted light green."

I nodded a sort of thank-you and went back and sat down.

"What, not going, Boss?"

"Tomorrow. I'm still pretty exhausted, and I need to be at my best to tackle this Guild. I get the feeling they're a bit like the Empire, and a bit like the Jhereg.”

"Feeling.”

"Yeah. When that's all you've got, that's what you go with. Be' sides, hitting them early in the morning seems like the right approach.”

"I have a suggestion for what to do between now and then Boss."

"What's that?"

"Put as many miles between us and this smelly hole of a town as your feet can manage.”

"No," I said.

Having made my plans, I let my mind relax, and I hardly moved for the rest of the day. The place filled up again, mostly peasants, no women. Strange. I watched them, and they ignored me, and Orbahn didn't appear.

The next part of the plan involved going to bed early, and I carried it off without a hitch. Loiosh even complimented me on its success. The little punk.

I drank coffee the next morning, and chewed on some poppy-seed rolls, still hot from the oven and with butter and honey. Good stuff. I had the room to myself while I ate, Inchay being in the back taking care of innkeeper things, and I ate slowly, planning how I was going to work things with the Guild.

I should explain: At this point, I was pretty well convinced that it was the Guild that had slaughtered the Merss family. I was ready to change my mind if I had reason to, and I hadn't eliminated the Count or some other person or group I didn't know about; and I wasn't sure enough to act on it. But I was pretty sure they were either responsible, or had a hand in it.

That was going to be the hard part—keeping my temper in check while I dug out the information I needed. I could feel the desire in me to find the Guild Master and watch my stiletto go up under his chin, or into his left eye, whichever was more convenient. I wanted it so bad I almost shook.

"Boss, this has been happening too much lately. Yesterday—"

"I know, Loiosh. I'm working on it.”

I spent a little extra time calming myself down, reminding myself to treat this like a job. No, it wasn't a job; but if I went at it like an amateur, letting my feelings dictate my methods, I'd end up where all amateurs end up. And maybe I'm going to end up there anyway, but not now; not before I'd finished this.

When I felt like I was ready, I stood up, borrowed a pitcher of water to wash the honey off my hands, took a deep breath, and went back out into the stench.

"Were really going to the Guild, Boss?"

"We really are. I don't know if they're behind this, or just have a big part of it, but either way I need to know what I'm up against, and pull some information out of them."

He sighed.

It was early morning, but the Furnace was hidden by gray clouds, making me feel more at home. I turned right out of the door. It wasn't far; it was before the street that turned off toward the docks. The rain started as I stepped inside.

It was a big room, with about four tables, and various official-looking men—about a dozen all together—sitting behind them, doing official-looking things with papers. No women. Odd. There was a staircase in back leading up. My first reaction was that there was too much activity for a Merchants' Guild in a town this size. But what do I know?

The guy at the table next to the door looked up; a young, serious-looking man who didn't eat enough, and, to judge from his pinched-up face and stiff back, he probably never did anything at all he enjoyed. He probably didn't believe in having fun. I should introduce him to this girl who roams the docks.

He wanted to know if he could be of service to me. I had the feeling it wasn't actually all that important to him one way or the other. I thought about breaking his legs, but that was just because I was in a bad mood.

"Chayoor," I told him. "I want to see him." He opened his mouth, hesitated, looked me over, closed his mouth, and hesitated again. I can't actually read minds the way Daymar can, but sometimes, you know, you don't need to—the poor guy was trying to decide my status so he'd know whether to address me as "my lord," or "boy" or something in between. He was having trouble, because I looked like a commoner except for the sword at my side. I felt very bad for him.

"Sir," he finally said, "if you will wait here, I will find out if—"

"Save it," I told him. "My name is Merss Vladimir, and there aren't enough of you here to keep me from seeing him. I assume he is up those stairs. Now, do you want to announce me, or shall I just head up?"

His mouth worked for a moment. I guess one of the worst sides of my character is how much I enjoy doing that to poor little bastards who have no defense against it.

"No," he finally said, keeping his voice low but even. "Your name is Vladimir Taltos, and you will see the Guild Master when he is ready to see you. He has been expecting you. I will see if he is free now. Excuse me."

Lefitt: Well, that didn't work either. Boraan: It most certainly did not. Lefitt: So, your next idea? Boraan: A drink, of course. Maize-oishka and water. Six parts water. Lefitt: That seems rather weak. Boraan: Well, but one hundred parts oishka, do you see? Lefitt: Ah. Yes, it is all clear to me now.

—Miersen, Six Parts Water Day Two, Act I, Scene 5

About three years later, as I was watching his back disappear up the stairs, Loiosh said, "Okay, Boss. Now what?"

Nothing builds confidence in subordinates like a quick decision in the face of unexpected circumstances.

"Um," I told him.

That was as far as I'd gotten when the young man came back down the stairs and gestured for me go up. He sat down and returned to whatever he had been doing without giving me another word. I didn't say anything. When you're licked, you're licked.

I did, however, make a point of flicking my cloak aside so I could get to my rapier in a hurry if I needed to, and checked the surprises I had left about my person to make sure they were ready and accessible.

The upper floor was all one room with a high arched ceiling and decorated, if you will, with a strange assortment of items hanging from the walls: a bunch of plants, a pair of boots, a hat, a shirt, a ladle, a hammer, a bottle of wine, and more. It took me a moment to figure out that these represented some or all of the members of the Guild. It was quaint. Anything that stays trite long enough becomes quaint.

Chayoor was a burly, barrel-chested man with thin black curly hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and dark eyes. He rose as I approached, gave me a perfunctory bow, and seated himself while gesturing me toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. He had a desk, not a table. The benefits of power: You get your own desk. I'm not mocking it; I remember how I felt when I got my own desk

I sat down.

"Lord Taltos," he said. "I was informed you would be here."

"I should prefer to be known as Merss, if you don't mind."

"Very well," he said.

"Would you mind telling me who it was who informed you?"

"I'm sorry, that I cannot do."

Okay. Well. This conversation just wasn't going at all the way I'd planned it. The whole intimidating him thing had gotten off to a bad start.

"That's unfortunate," I said. "I have enemies, you know. Also friends. If I don't know whether it was a friend or an enemy that alerted you, it puts me in an uncomfortable position."

"It was a friend," he said.

Right. Just so you know, I didn't have any "friends" who knew where I was going. "And if it had been an enemy, you'd have told me?"

"I see your point," he said. "Nevertheless—"

"Yeah. Well, if it was a friend, I assume he asked you to cooperate with me?"

He frowned. "Not as such."

"Uh huh."

He looked uncomfortable, which was at least a little encouraging. "What exactly do you need?"

"I came here looking for my family," I said. "My mother's kin."

"Yes," he said. "I'm sorry about what happened."

I need to explain that Fenarian makes a distinction between, "I apologize for an injury," and, "I express my sympathy." He used the latter formulation. I grunted or something.

"I'm going to find out who did it," I said.

His eyebrow went up. "And then?"

I cocked my head at him. "Why, then I will turn the guilty party over to the duly constituted authority, of course."

It was his turn to grunt. "In Burz," he said, "the duly constituted authority is me."

"Is that the law?" I asked. "Or just how it works?"

"What's the difference?"

"You're a blunt son-of-a-bitch, I'll give you that."

He laughed, throwing his head back and letting his belly shake. I hadn't thought it was that funny.

"Yes, Lord, ah, Merss, I am a blunt son-of-a-bitch. And I'll tell you bluntly that I like how things are here in my town, and if you do anything to interfere with it, we will no longer be friends."

"Yeah," I said. "I guessed that part."

"So," he said. "Now what will you do?"

"Let me assume you had nothing against the Merss family, because if you're responsible, you wouldn't tell me. So, who did?"

"I couldn't tell you," he said.

I rubbed my chin. "You know," I said, "if you interfere with me finding out what I want to find out, you might no longer be my friend."

"Is that a threat?"

"I'm not sure. I guess it'll sort of do for one. As a threat, how does it rate?"

"Hollow," he said.

I fixed him with patented Jhereg stare number six, lowered my voice, and said, "Then you can safely ignore it, I guess."

I had the satisfaction of seeing that go home; he looked uncomfortable.

I stood up abruptly, before he could announce the end of the interview. "I'd appreciate it," I said, "if my name wouldn't go any further."

"It won't," he told me. "Only Shandy and I know it, and he won't say anything."

I nodded, turned, and made my way across the long, long room to the stairway, then down and out. Shandy didn't look up as I walked past him.

It was still raining when I got outside, but not too hard. I made it back to the Hat somewhere between wet and soaked.

"Boss, not to put too fine a point on it, but we need to get out of this place. Now. I mean, without stopping. Pick a direction and start walking."

"Yeah, I know.”

"Boss, they know who you are."

"I know.”

"That bastard could get rich just by dropping your name in the right ear."

"I know. But, Loiosh, why hasn't he done so already? Why am I still breathing?"

"Boss, can we please talk about this after we're out of town? I'm too old to learn to hunt for myself."

"You don't hunt, you scavenge."

"Boss—"

"Loiosh, have you ever known me to walk into something this strange and just walk away from it without finding out what's going on?"

"This would be a really, really good time to start."

"I'll take it under advisement"

I got inarticulate thoughts that were probably the jhereg equivalent of cursing.

I stamped some of the rain off my clothes and shook my head like a dog.

"Thanks for the shower, Boss."

"Like you were dry before?"

I found a drink and a chair and sat down.

"Loiosh, how in blazes did they learn my name?"

"Huh? You don't know?"

"You do?"

"Of course!"

"All right, how?"

"When you took the amulet off and did the spell, Boss. Remember, I felt something?"

This time it was my turn to curse. "They got it right out of my head."

"There's still the question of who did it."

"Who could it be? It wasn't the Jhereg. If they knew I was here, they'd send someone in to kill me. End of discussion."

'Uh, okay.”

"There's Chayoor himself.”

"Boss, he didn't tell himself who you are; someone has to have told him.”

"Sorry, chum. I'm not just going over who might have told Chayoor, I'm trying to work out all the players in this mess."

"Heh. Good luck with that."

"There's Orbahn, who's either too helpful, or not helpful enough."

"Right.”

"There are these witches. There's most likely a Coven. They could have acted on their own behalf, as the Coven. Even if not, one of their members must have done the Working, so either way they could know.

"Then there's the coachman, who's the only guy I've found who has been really helpful, which makes me suspicious."

"Uh... all right.”

"And then there's Count Saekeresh, however he fits in. Have I left anyone out?"

"Sure. Everyone else in town, and everyone, everyone knows.”

"I take your point, Loiosh. But let's keep it within reason."

"We're way beyond that, Boss."

"Loiosh.”

"All right. The host?"

"Right. The host. Good position to hear things, and knows I've been asking questions."

"Boss, can't we please leave?"

"No."

I accepted the psychic form of a resigned sigh and continued my ruminations.

"What are you thinking about, Boss? You know and I know you're going to march up to the Count and try to intimidate him. Probably work as well as—"

"Shut up.”

I hate it when he's right.

Well, if I was going to do it, may as well do it properly. I went over to Inchay. "Can you find someone to run a message to Count Saekeresh for me?"

He looked at me sharply, decided that was a mistake, and washed a cup that didn't need washing while he thought it over. At last he said, "Very well. What is the message?"

"If you have paper and ink."

He nodded, dried his hands, and vanished into a small room behind the bar, then emerged with the necessary equipment. I wrote and handed it to him, unsealed.

"How urgent is it?"

"Today would be good."

"I'll see that it gets there today."

I gave him more of that jingly stuff that keeps tradesmen wanting to be helpful, then settled back to see if Orbahn would show up, and if Loiosh would calm down.

No, and no.

Later I had more lamb stew. Sometimes I get into ruts where I'll eat the same thing for days. I used to do that, long ago, I guess in part out of laziness. Cawti had largely broken me of the habit just because I liked trying new ideas out on her, but now I was falling back into the pattern. But I guess part of it was that the lamb stew was good. I

liked the bread, too; having the right kind of bread to mop up stew is its own art.

No, and no.

The place started to fill up, and I moved to a back table. I was getting more covert looks than I had before; I wasn't sure exactly what sort of word was spreading about me, but something was. I reflected that that was part of the problem—I didn't know. I'd gotten spoiled, I suppose, by having Kragar near at hand, and access to Morrolan's spy network (he never used that term, I think he found it distasteful, but that's what it was), and Kiera and her nearly endless knowledge of the arcana of the Underworld. If I wanted to know what was going on, all I had to do was decide who to ask first; eventually I'd find out. Here, I was in the dark, and I didn't care for it. Cawti would have told me to figure out exactly what I wanted to accomplish, and then helped me break it down into steps, and—

I found myself wanting a very strong drink and didn't take it because getting drunk right then would have been a stupid idea, and because I hate being trite. It can lead to being quaint. Instead, I made circles on the table with my finger in the moisture from my glass. I found I'd been doing that a lot lately, and wondered about it. But not very much.

Some hours later, one of the barmaids tapped my shoulder and indicated the host, who was trying to get my attention. I made my way over to him, and he handed me a note. I nodded and returned to my table to read it. I had to shift my chair to a place where my shadow wasn't blocking the light from the nearest lamp; then I broke the seal and unfolded the thick parchment. G6od paper, I noticed; they probably made it locally.

"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?"

"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 human 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 doorway. 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."

Lefitt: Oh, gracious. Here? What will I wear? Oh, my. I never know how to speak to nobility. Boraan: 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 menat-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 homeland. 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-to day 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 fortune 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 made 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."

He didn't appear to take the question at any more than face value. "What beliefs?" he asked.

"This notion of 'light' and 'dark' forms of the Art. It is new tome."

"Odd you should bring that up," he said.

"Oh?"

"I had meant to ask you about it."

If he saw some expression of surprise on my face, that was all right; it was both honest and in character for the role I was playing. He glanced at Loiosh and Rocza, cleared his throat, and said, "It is obvious you're a witch."

"Well, yes," I said.

"I am not. But it would seem that anything may be used for, ah, different purposes."

"Well, yes."

"For good, shall we say, or evil."

"I had never exactly thought of it in those terms," I said honestly, "but I guess I know what you mean."

He nodded. "Well?"

"Uh, well what?"

"How would you describe your own practice?"

I drank some wine, then stared at the glass. It was a very nice glass, hand-blown, thin, and delicate. "I have never considered myself evil," I finally said.

"I imagine no one does," he said.

"Maybe you could explain why this is important to you? It seems odd you should ask a stranger that question."

He chuckled. "And impolite? I'm sorry. It has become important."

I sat back a little. "How so?"

He gave one of those looks people give when they imagine they can look into your eyes and see if you're lying. Just for the record, that doesn't work. Well, sometimes it does, if you know what to look for. But don't bet your life on it. And don't try it on me.

After a moment, he said, "There is history there, stretching back for some years. That isn't important right now. More recently, I suspect I have been, ah, harmed by a follower of the darker ways of your craft."

"Recently," I said. "How recently? I only got to town a couple of days ago."

"Last night," he said.

"Indeed? A busy night—I was harmed as well."

"I know. I have simply assumed that it isn't coincidental that, with family in this area, you were sent by your Empress."

"Hardly. And I don't think it coincidental that my kin were murdered after I arrived. Do you?"

"Unlikely," he said laconically.

"I take it you have enemies."

He nodded.

"So, then," I said, "perhaps your enemies are mine."

"Perhaps so," he said. I could see him thinking, or perhaps my enemy is you. Which I guess meant he could be telling the truth, or could be as straightforward as a Yendi—that is to say, not.

"Would you care to tell me what happened to you?"

"Why not?" he said. "It's no secret, or if it is it won't be for long. Last night, my coachman was murdered."

Okay, well, I don't know what I'd expected, but it wasn't that. I couldn't say anything for a moment, while the anger I'd been trying to suppress threatened to erupt right here and now. I don't know what I'd have done—torn apart the room? Thrown his glasses around? Beaten up his butler?

He saw something of what was going on inside of me, I guess, because he flinched.

"Did you know him?" he asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

"Someone," I said, "is going to—"

"Boss."

Loiosh was right. I stopped and just shook my head. I took a couple of deep breaths. "How was he killed?"

"Witchcraft, I am told. I haven't yet learned the details."

"Who would know them?"

He frowned. "This does not, I think, concern you, my lord."

"My lord, in light of what happened to my family, I beg to disagree with you."

"You think they are connected in some way?"

I knew they were connected in some way. "The timing seems significant," I said. "Unless this sort of thing happens all the time around here."

He nodded. "Yes, you may be right. But I know of no connection between my coachman or the Merss family, or between my coachman and you. Do you?"

"No. Nevertheless—"

"Then, for now, I do not believe I should tell you any more."

It was becoming difficult not to say the things I shouldn't say. I took a moment, then eventually managed, "My lord, I'll not take up any more of your time. I look forward to hearing from your people."

"Of course," he said. "Forgive me if I do not stand. My man will show you out."

I bowed. He leaned back as if exhausted; I guess I'd tired him out a bit. It would be an odd sort of irony if my visit exerted him to the point where he dropped dead.

The butler guided me down the stairs and back toward the front doors.

"Did you know him?" I asked suddenly.

"My lord?"

"Zollie. Did you know him?"

He cleared his throat, started to speak, then just nodded.

"What happened?" I asked him.

We had reached the front door. He stopped with his hand out toward the iron handle and gave me a look of inquiry. "My lord?"

I shrugged and met his gaze. "You must have a theory about who killed him, and why."

"Not at all, my lord."

"Crap."

He hesitated. "Did my lord know him?"

"No, but the matter interests me. I was told he was killed by a witch."

"So it would seem, my lord."

"What was the actual cause of death?"

"Sudden heart failure, my lord."

"Um. And you're sure it was a witch?'

"He had the mark."

"The mark?"

"The witch-mark, my lord."

"What's a witch-mark?"

It's hard to describe the look he gave me. It was a mix of surprise, reserve, disbelief, and courtesy. I'm not certain Teldra could have done it better. I waited him out. He said, "I'm sure I wouldn't know, my lord."

"Who would?"

"My lord?"

"Cut it out. Just don't. I'm in a very bad mood, and you don't want to make it any worse. Where did you hear about it, and who would know?"

I could see him at war with himself for an instant, but training, or fear, or something else won. He said, "My lord, I would have no idea about such things."

"All right," I said. "He had a girl he liked to meet at the inn. What is her name?"

He only hesitated a moment, that time. "Eelie," he said.

"Thanks," I said with a bit of a twist on it.

"I shall have the groom bring your horse." He held the door for me and stood like a statue. I really had no choice but to go through it.

I waited in front, and presently the groom emerged, leading Marsi.

I never did learn the butler's name. Maybe he didn't have one.

I gave the stable-boy back at the Pointy Hat a good tip, which he accepted graciously, and then I said good-bye to Marsi, as good a horse as they get, I think; even Loiosh didn't have anything bad to say about her. Here's an odd thing: The inn was feeling enough like home to me that I found I didn't need to conceal how wobbly I was after dismounting.

I got a glass of coffee from the host and went over to what had become "my table" sometime in the last couple of days. Sitting felt good. The ache in my legs passed quickly; it took longer before I had relaxed enough to think clearly. The coffee helped in that, but klava would have helped more. Dammit.

I noticed I was hungry and thought about getting more lamb stew, but changed my mind. Instead I went back out into the street, where the stench pretty effectively killed my appetite. I walked past the docks and saw the factory—excuse me, the "mill"— churning out smoke and stench. I didn't slow down. I got to the other inn and noticed for the first time that they had incense burners about the room. It must have been fairly subtle incense for me not to have noticed, but it worked. I wondered why the Hat didn't have them. Maybe they did and they were just concealed better.

At this time of the day—it was still early afternoon—I had the place to myself save for a bored-looking middle-aged barmaid, who asked if I wanted anything. My appetite had returned, so I ended up getting some decent bean soup and a loaf of bread served with garlic cloves and a lot of butter. Good butter.

As the barmaid was bringing me a glass of bitter-tasting wine called Enekesner (I got the name to be certain I never accidentally ordered it again), I asked her when Eelie would be showing up.

"Won't be in today," she said.

"Where can I find her?"

She looked me over. She'd done something to darken her eyebrows, and something else to make her lips shiny. I've always wondered about stuff like that. But not too much.

"Don't waste your time," she said.

"Is she a friend of yours?"

She shrugged. "Not especially. Why?"

I pulled out three silver coins and let them ring on top of the table. "Where can I find her?"

Her eyes widened, and she said, "Upstairs, room at the end of the hall."

I was glad the barmaid hadn't been a friend of hers; it would have cost me another coin. I took my time finishing the meal, then went to the back and up the stairs. I had to hit the door twice before I heard a faint voice say, "What is it?"

"My name is Merss," I said. "I want to talk to you."

"Go away," she suggested.

"Open the door," I suggested back, "or I'll knock the bloody thing down."

There was a pause, and the door opened. She was pretty enough, I guess, except for her eyes. She'd been crying.

"Tell me what you know," I said, continuing with the whole suggestion line.

"What the hell does it matter to you?" She started crying again. I ignored it.

"I'm going to find out who did it, and kill him," I said.

Her red eyes widened a little. "Why?" she said, barely whispering.

"I'm just in that kind of a mood," I said. "Tell me what you know."

She hesitated again, then stood aside, which I took as an invitation to enter her room. I did so, and she shut the door. It was a tiny room, with little enough to show who she was, and that little I paid no attention to. There was the bed and a chair. She didn't suggest I sit, so I just stood there and waited.

"You talked to him last night," she said.

"Yeah."

"He told me about you. He thought you ..."

"What?"

"He thought you were funny." She started sobbing. I leaned against the door and waited. A moment later she said, "I'm sorry."

"I'm told a witch killed him."

"He had the witch-mark."

"What is the witch-mark?"

Her eyes flicked to Loiosh and Rocza, then back to me; her forehead was creased. "Different lands, different customs, different ways of doing things," I told her. "I've heard of a witch's mark, something that indicates a person is a witch. I don't think you're using the term that way, and, anyway, I don't believe in them. Fill me in. What is a witch-mark?"

"When they found him, his lips were red."

"Um," I said. "Why is that called a witch-mark?"

"You really don't know?"

Patience, Vlad. "I really don't know."

"A witch will send an imp down your throat to your heart. The imp leaves red footprints on the lips."

There were some problems with that—the first being that you can't really get to the heart from the throat (you pick up a bit of anatomy when you kill people for a living), the second being that I don't believe in imps.

To be sure, there is a way to kill someone using the Art that will leave red lips; it involves a simple transformation, replacing the contents of his lungs with the smoke from your brazier. But—

Okay, now wasn't the time. "All right," I said. "Where was he found?"

She looked at me for a long moment, then looked at her bed, then back at me.

"Oh," I said.

"He was going to marry me," she said. "He told me so."

I nodded, choosing not to ask when he had told her and how many times for fear she might take it the right way. Okay, so I'm a bastard; but there are limits. "I'm sorry," I told her. "I'll leave you alone now."

"You'll find out who did it?" she said, and there was something a little scary in her eyes.

"Yes, I will. I'll also find out why."

"And you'll kill him?"

"Yes," I said. "I will."

"Good," she said. "Will you make it slow?"

"I'll make it certain."

She nodded.

Okay, maybe I shouldn't have told her that; I certainly would never have admitted that I was going to kill someone to anyone, ever, back in the Empire. And maybe I was a bit too contemptuous of what this kingdom used for law, and should have been more worried. But I wanted to give her that much, and, in the event, of all the things that turned around and bit me, that wasn't one; so I guess I got away with it, if you like.

I left her and went back down to the main room and from there back into the stench. It hit me hard that time, I remember; almost like a blow. My stomach turned and I actually gagged there, in the street; the reeking foulness of the whole town was suddenly, just for a moment, too much for me. I made my way back to the Pointy Hat; I can remember my eyes felt glazed and it was all I could do to put one foot in front of another until I'd passed the threshold.

I made it to my table, and, yeah, they had the same subtle incense here they did at the other place, only I couldn't see where it came from. It helped, though. I'd never been fond of incense before; it was another tool of the Art, not something one used just to brighten up one's day. I know that many witches—including my grandfather—live so that there is no clear distinction between practicing the Art and simply living; subtle spells and charms are part of his life. Not me; for me there had always been a sharp line: Here I was doing a spell, here I was done with it. But now, maybe that was changing. I could imagine getting very fond of incense. I could just imagine the look on Cawti's face when I told her I was— Yeah, shake it off, Vlad.

The thought of brandy repulsed me, and I didn't need coffee, so I did something unusual for me: I had the host draw me a summer ale. It was warmer than I'd have liked, but not too bitter. I nodded my approval to Inchay, who gave me a rare smile. I guess he was proud of his ale.

I sat and drank it slowly while my head stopped turning, and gradually I was able to focus on the problem in front of me. I got up and paced a bit, earning me a look from the host; then I sat down again. It hit me that one thing that was so odd was that there was so much violence going on, and I was pretty sure I was somehow at the center of it, but I wasn't doing any of it, and none of it was directed at me. I wasn't used to that.

Well, but let's think about that, Vlad. If they aren't trying to kill you, there's a reason.

The most likely reason is that they know that if they try, you're liable to put a nice pretty shine on a whole lot of them. Which immediately calls up the question: How do they know that? It isn't like I was walking around looking dangerous, or anything. Was the mere fact that I openly carried a blade sufficient to tell them? It didn't seem likely. So either they're good enough to spot me for what I am, or else they have some reason to suspect I'm someone they shouldn't touch. Or they know who I am.

To be sure, the Guild knew my name, as did whatever witch or witches had pulled it from my mind. But how much more had they gotten? Enough to know to get a message to the Jhereg? And, if so, would they want to? Would they know how?

It was possible. It was possible there was an assassin heading this way, right now, as fast as teleportation and feet could carry him. But why? If they were going to do that, it would be for the money. If they did manage to get hold of the right people in the Jhereg, they wouldn't be told to lay off me; they'd be told they could get a lot of money for delivering my head.

Morganti.

The Jhereg would want it done their way. So, if I assume there is some means of communication between some group here and the Jhereg—dubious, but possible—they could have been told to keep me in town, but not to kill me, and that would account for at least some of what was going on.

Maybe, but it certainly seemed like a stretch. Especially considering that they wouldn't have let me know that my name wasn't a secret; nor would anyone working for them. At least, not if they had any sense.

All in all, it was more likely there was something entirely different going on: something that had to do with the complex politics of a strange Guild, a Count who owned a factory— excuse me, a "mill"—and whatever forces there were that I didn't know about. If so, then whatever was going on, it made them believe I was someone they couldn't touch directly.

"What do you think, chum?"

"I think you're right, Boss. Someone wants you not to find out something, and they don't dare come after you directly."

"Suggestions?"

"You mean, other than leaving?"

"Yeah, other than that."

"No."

I considered the plan I'd come up with, all of—uh, two days ago? The people I'd want to get information from were dead, or had dropped out of sight, or had managed to forestall me one way or another. But I had learned a few things, hadn't I?

Yes.

I'd learned that there were all sorts of talk of witchcraft, and maybe it had been used to kill someone, it had certainly been used to burn a house down, and it was unlike the Art I knew, and there were two sides, one of which involved my family, and they were dead, and the other side—Had been bloody noticeable by its absence.

Okay.

I needed to find out who those witches were. A Coven? A bunch of individuals who practiced the Art in some particular way that I didn't know about, one of whom happened to be worried about me finding something out? No, there was a Coven of some kind; with all the strange politics in this town, there couldn't not be. How to find it, and learn about it? Yeah, okay, now at least I had a direction.

Part of the problem is that, at the best of times, witches tend to be secretive. I once asked my grandfather why that was, and he gave me one of those "that's the way it is" kind of answers. I've always hated those. So, how, then, to find a witch?

"Loiosh? You must have a touch of the Sight." "You're just a laugh a minute, Boss. Okay, what do you want me to do?" "Nothing special, just stay aware for any castings. If you pick up on one, I want to

know where it's coming from." "Boss, I'd have to be almost on top of it to tell, or else it would have to be an awfully

strong Working." "I know. Just stay aware." "All right.”

I wondered where Orbahn was, and why he'd been making himself so scarce. It was far from impossible that he was dead by now, like Zollie, and his body concealed.

I wondered where Zollie's body was now, and if I could get permission to look at it, and if I could tell anything if I wanted to risk removing my amulet again, and if I dared do so. The answers were something like "probably not" all the way down the line. But I thought about his red lips and wondered.

Boraan (shrugging): He is a Jhegaala. We can't know how a Jhegaala will react until we know what stage he is at. Lefitt: Indeed. That is just how one generally finds out. Boraan: Inefficient, to be sure. Lefitt: Irritating. Boraan: Frustrating. Lefitt: Enraging. Boraan: Monstrous. Lefitt: They ought to be required to wear signs.

—Miersen, Six Parts Water Day Two, Act I, Scene 1

Evening fell, and business picked up a little as it became too dark to work the fields; at the same time, at the other place, workmen would be coming from the mill. All of them, in both places, tired, sweaty, stinking, and determined to forget their dreary lives. Peasants are ignorant and filthy; workmen are smelly and loud. Put 'em together and shake 'em up however you want, and what's the difference? And these were the people Cawti had thrown me over for. How do you make sense of that?

I guess you don't make sense of it, you just deal with it. There's a lot of stuff like that.

I went out into the evening and walked west down the road. A few steps and I was out of the town; I continued about a quarter of a mile the way I'd first come. It was amazing how alone I was. The few lights from Burz did nothing to break up the darkness. There was a breeze in my face and no stench. I looked up. Stars, small lights against the dead black of the sky of these human lands, glittered.

How long I was out there, I don't know, but eventually Loiosh said, "Someone's coming, Boss." A moment later I heard footsteps. I probably should have been ready, had a dagger in my hand or something, but I was in a mood. In any case, I wasn't attacked.

The footsteps stopped. Someone had good night vision. "Lord Merss?"

It was a male voice, and not one I recognized. I didn't turn around. "Yes," I said.

"I've been looking for you."

"And you've found me. You must tell me how you do it. I haven't found anything I've been looking for since I set foot in this bloody town."

"You weren't that hard to find. Call me Dahni."

"Good to meet you, Dahni. What's your part in all of this?"

"Ah, there's the question, isn't it?" he said. "Too many factions and none of them to be trusted."

"I couldn't have said it better myself. There's something about your speech that—"

"No, I'm not a native of this country. I'm from a small kingdom to the east where the women are prettier but the food isn't as good."

"Choose the food," I said. "Can't go wrong that way."

"And so I did."

"Wise."

"Yes, indeed. But, speaking of wisdom, you've put yourself into a bit of what you'd call a situation, haven't you?"

"Have I? And here I thought things were going swimmingly."

"I can help."

"All right, I'm listening."

"First, you're going to want to know why you should listen to me."

"Not at all. I'm listening to you because I like your accent."

He laughed. "You and I could get along, Lord Merss. All right, then, why you should believe me."

"That's going to take some work, yes."

"I'm here as a favor for a friend."

"What's his name?"

He laughed again. "You don't expect me to answer that, do you?"

"Not really, no."

"So then, this friend thinks you might be in a position to do him some good, and that he could do you some good in exchange."

"I'm still listening."

"I'm guessing that what you need more than anything is information."

"Good guess."

"Well, here I am. Ask me things. Preferably things you can check."

Nice idea, that. Only it wasn't so simple: You can learn a lot by what someone wants to know, and I wasn't inclined to let this guy learn a lot. So far, he'd done exactly nothing to convince me I could trust him.

"Anyone else around, Loiosh?"

"No, Boss.”

"Okay," I said. "Tell me why this town is so strange."

"Mmmm," he said. "Haven't been in Fenario long, have you:

"No."

"This town isn't any more strange than any other in this country. Each has its idiosyncrasies."

"Idiosyncrasies."

"The King rarely exerts much control over the counties. They go as they go, and whatever oddities crop up, determine the nature of that county. Now, if you want to see a really odd place, head all the way east into the mountains, not far from my country. There's a place called Tuz where they train goats to smuggle by getting them to—"

"All right," I said. "I get the idea. Each county is on its own."

"Yes. And this one took a turn, oh, I don't know, a few hundred years ago, maybe, when some peasant turned up an old recipe for making really good paper, and making it in quantity. He sold it to the Count—probably in exchange for a wagon and two horses to get himself out of town—and since then—"

"Tell me what you can about this friend of yours. What does he imagine I can do for him?"

"You have a common enemy, that's always a good basis an alliance of some sort."

"All right. Who is the enemy?"

"Don't you know?"

"Don't play games with me, Dahni."

"Eh, this is all a big game, Lord Merss. That's why I'm here; play games well, because I can always find the cracks in the rules."

"And you're careful never to spell out what the rules are to any other players who don't know."

"Exactly."

"Good, then. I'm happy for you. Have your fun. Who is the enemy?"

"I'm sorry, Lord Taltos."

There are any number of ways of dealing with someone who is trying to get information from you, and who you think might be good enough to pull it off. I thought about the simplest one: I almost killed him right then and there. I could have, too. I couldn't see him, but Loiosh knew where he was. I came very close. It would have been a mistake, certainly—I had no real reason to, and if I had, things would have gone, let's say, differently. But I wanted to.

"Turn and walk away," I told him.

I guess he must have picked up something from my tone, because he didn't say another word. I heard his boot-steps receding.

"Loiosh, keep track of him. I want to make sure he isn't waiting somewhere"

He flew off and did so, reporting that he'd gone back to town, and was last seen entering a house. Loiosh marked which house it was, then came back. He also made sure I was walking the right way back to town.

The light from the inn grew quickly, until it was hurting my eyes. I walked more slowly to give my vision time to adjust.

"Well now. That was certainly interesting. Did we get more information than we gave away?"

"You're the expert on that, Boss. I'm just eyes with wings."

"And a good sense of the arcane." We had reached the door of the Hat.

"Is that a question? No, I haven't picked up any witchcraft."

"All right.”

I muttered. The strange practice of the Art in this strange town was one of the things I needed to know about.

There were only a few people in the inn by this time, and the host was having a quiet conversation with a couple of them.

The barmaid had left, so I interrupted Inchay long enough to get a cup of the summer ale he was so proud of. I was hungry but I didn't feel like eating; I was tired but I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep; I was angry but I didn't have anyone to kill. Random killings, power-hungry guilds, witches with practices—or at least beliefs—that made no sense. It was irritating. There was just too much going on. I didn't know the details of any of them, and I didn't know which ones fit together, or how. I took out a dagger and started flipping it, chewing my lip, trying to make sense of the whole thing.

"Boss. . . ."

The host was staring at me. I gave him a warm smile and put the dagger away. It was either that or carve him with it, and I didn't feel like standing up.

"How many days have we been here, Loiosh?" "Years, Boss. We've been here years." "It does sort of feel like that, doesn't it?" "Does that mean you're thinking about leaving?" "Not yet." "Okay.” "How is Rocza doing?" "Picking up my moods, Boss. Sorry." "It's all right. This is tough for all of us." "But why—" "I need to do this." "You could always just go poking around and stirring things up with no plan and see

what happens," he said, meaning that's just what I'd been doing.

"You're pretty funny," I said, meaning he wasn't.

He was right, though. Stumbling around to stir things up can be effective, up to a point. It can work; you might learn things that way. But sometimes when you do that people get killed, and sometimes it's the wrong people.

Loiosh nuzzled the side of my neck.

"Yeah, I know," I told him.

I got bread and cheese from Inchay and made myself eat some, and fed some to Loiosh and Rocza. The cheese was salty. I don't like salty cheese. I got some more summer ale to wash it down, which was probably why he sold salty cheese. Bastard.

"Tell me something," I said as I picked up the ale. "What sort of witchcraft do they practice around here?"

"Eh." He fixed me with a hard stare. "The clean, decent kind, so far as I know. But I don't practice myself. Ask someone who does."

"Who would that be?"

"Hmmm?"

"Who practices the Art? Point someone out."

"In here?"

"Sure."

There were four people in the place, all by themselves, drinking quietly. Two of them were watching us, the other two were drunk.

"I don't keep track," he said. "And if I did, I wouldn't tell a stranger. All right?"

I shrugged. "Then let me ask you something else."

His eyes narrowed and his jaw set. "What?"

"Do you sell salty cheese on purpose, just to get people to buy more ale?"

After a second, he chuckled, then moved down to the other end of the bar. I went back to my table.

"Well, how about that. You try the direct approach, and it works. I'll have to remember that."

"What do you mean worked, Boss?"

"You weren't watching his eyes."

"He gestured at someone?"

"Not on purpose."

"Who?"

"Middle of the room, long gray coat, curly hair, looks like he's about to pass out."

"Should I follow him when he leaves?"

"Might be a tad obvious for me to follow him out, and then come back in shy one jhereg."

"Window to the roof, and I'll watch the door from there."

"Yeah, sounds good."

I took another swallow of the beer, set the mug down, and went up to my room. I opened the shutters, and Loiosh flew out the window and up. I settled back to wait.

About twenty minutes, that's what it took. He flew back in the window like he didn't have a care in the world.

"Got it, Boss. He was just down the street. I'd have been back sooner if he hadn't fallen on his face a couple of times on the way home."

"Hmm. So, by now, he's probably asleep."

"I thought it was called passed out."

"So if . . . yes. Okay, show me this place."

"You're the boss."

So, down the stairs, and then once more out into the dark and the stench. And if you're getting tired of hearing how much it stank, imagine how tired I was getting of walking through it. Phew.

Loiosh, who has better night vision than I do—which is to say, he has at least some night vision—flew just a bit in front of me, and guided me down the middle of another of the surprisingly wide roads of the town. I quickly had no idea which way we were going, or where we were in relation to the inn, but quite soon Loiosh said, "This is it."

"All right."

I listened and heard snores. I tried the door and found it unlocked; it didn't make too much noise when it opened, and then I was inside.

"One step forward, Boss. Another. Hold out your hand. Right. A little more. There. That's a candle."

There seemed to be a wall between me and the snoring. "Anyone in this room?"

"No."

It amazing how bright a single candle can be, and how much it hurts your eyes. There was a simple enchantment to adjust one's eyes to the dark or to the light; but of course I wasn't about to remove my amulet to cast it, so I waited.

The snores stopped, and a drunken voice went, "Huh, what?"