Dzur (Vlad Taltos) Page 10

  “You’re trembling, Boss.”

  “Yeah, well. How are you doing?”

  “Not so good. What they did to you, they did to me, too.”

  “Not they. Her.”

  “That doesn’t help.”

  And the other thing was, I didn’t know which memories were taken, and which had come back. It’s been weeks now, and I still don’t know. Memory doesn’t work like that. Sometimes you can dig around in your memory looking for something the way you’d dig through a desk drawer, and maybe even find it. Sometimes you can just explore your memories like going through the old trunks in an attic, and find interesting things. Sometimes you can follow memories, one to the other, like a twisty corridor, just to see where they lead.

  But you can’t investigate your own memory to see what is there that used to be missing.

  And in a way, that was the horror of the whole thing; that’s what still is. What memories, or memories of memories, are back, waiting to bite me? And what is still missing?

  I brought myself to a sitting position, lit a candle, found the jug of wine, and drank some. It had that taste that reminds me of old shoe leather. I’m told that wine experts really like that taste, when there’s only a little of it. That isn’t as silly as it sounds; there are any number of things that are good when you have a little, and bad when you have too much; like the way we sometimes forget things that are either unpleasant, or not worth remembering. A little bit of that is okay.

  There was way too much taste of old shoe leather.

  I set the jug down.

  “Not getting drunk, Boss? I’m impressed.”

  “Loiosh, when was the last time you saw me drunk?”

  “Yesterday, when you left Valabar’s.”

  “I wasn’t drunk, I was just happy.”

  “So happy you almost passed out right outside of Sethra’s door.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Okay, other than that. No, never mind.”

  I sat back on the bed again, leaning against the wall. I had touched the altar. Okay. I’m no expert on how those things work, but I could believe that this would give me some sort of connection to the Goddess. Only I was wearing the Phoenix Stone amulet, which ought to make that impossible. And, even if it wasn’t, what sort of contact with the Goddess could restore memories she had taken away?

  It was hard to concentrate on that. The idea of her messing around inside my head like that was—

  “You’re grinding your teeth, Boss.”

  I stopped grinding my teeth, sat back again, and tried to relax. I cursed Verra under my breath for a while. That helped. Besides, if the Phoenix Stone was working, she couldn’t hear me.

  I wanted to get up and walk somewhere, because I think better that way. I also didn’t want to leave the safety of my room. Or maybe I should say the security.

  I took a knife from my boot and threw it into the wall. I made a loud, echoing “thunk.” I hoped I’d get some complaints from management. Then I could slap management around and explain what I thought about the quality of the room. That would make me feel better. I found another knife, and sent that one to join the first. It landed about four inches away. I used to be better.

  I got up, retrieved the knives, sat on the bed, and threw them again. The results were about the same, but now there were four nice gashes in the wall. By the time the count was up to a score, I had improved a little and become convinced that no one was going to complain about the noise, so I stopped and replaced the knives. I had another sip of wine, then threw the jug out the window. It made a good crash when it hit the ground. Someone yelled something unintelligible. I would have answered, but I didn’t have anything unintelligible to say.

  “Not thirsty anymore, Boss?”

  “That really was terrible wine.”

  “I see.”

  “Remind me not to buy it again.”

  “All right.”

  “It has to be Spellbreaker.”

  “Boss?”

  “Spellbreaker. It’s now part of Lady Teldra. And I was touching Lady Teldra, and the altar at the same time. Somehow Lady Teldra broke whatever enchantment was messing up my head.”

  “How could it do that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Oh. Well, good then. That’s settled.”

  I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I should have paid the boy to clean the ceiling, too. Shadows from the chair, and Loiosh, and Rocza all flickered across the walls as the candle flame danced. Loiosh must have blown it out. Or maybe flapped it out. All of which means that eventually I must have fallen asleep.

  6

  SERTALIA CHEESE

  You make cheese out of the milk of some animal like a cow or a goat.

  Okay, now you know everything I know about cheesemaking.

  No doubt there is a whole art to it, and I’m told that the Teckla in every region of the Empire have their own special sorts of cheese, but for the life of me I have no idea what the subtle differences are, or how they might go about flavoring them, or why one sort crumbles when you look at it funny, while another hangs together like roofing mud.

  What we were served after the soup was a Valabar tradition called Sertalia—a very soft cheese that you spread, rather than slice, and that had a flavoring reminiscent of wild savory, and a bit of sweetness. It also produced just the least tingle on the tip of the tongue.

  It was served on a cracker about which nothing can be said, because it had no flavor at all—it was a blank slate upon which could be written whatever sort of cheese one wished.

  They placed the crackers, on their little plates, and the cheese in their little tubs with little knives, on the table right before the fish; in other words, right before the first real, substantial part of the meal—before the meat, if I might use a metaphor in an almost literal sense. It’s your last, deep breath before the plunge, and it comes just when you’ve adjusted to the water.

  But don’t eat very many. There is a great deal left to come, and you can’t fill up now, or you’ll have no room to be surprised by what is surprising, and delighted by what is delightful.

  I slept badly, waking up several times. This is unusual for me, but I was in an unusual situation. However, each time I woke I felt Loiosh and Rocza’s presence, which was reassuring. At some point, though I don’t remember doing it, I must have removed Lady Teldra’s sheath from my belt and set it next to me on the bed. When I finally woke to see morning filtering in through the little window, my hand was on the hilt, and my thoughts were of the time she had found me in the middle of nowhere, asking for my help, and setting off the train of events that had led to her death.

  There was a terrible sadness there, but it didn’t come from her; it was all mine. While I felt her presence, it wasn’t as if she had any thoughts or feelings, although Sethra had implied that someday she would “wake up.” I wondered what that would be like. It could get awful crowded inside my head, what with one thing and another.

  I got up and said, “Klava. I must find klava.”

  A few minutes later I was dressed as Sandor. I didn’t see anyone as I left the inn, and not too many as I made my way to a klava vendor down the street. He also had fresh muffins. Ten minutes later, I was ready to face the world, more or less.

  “Okay, Boss. What’s the plan? Or am I asking too much?”

  “You’re asking too much.”

  It was just a few steps back to Six Corners and the little shop. I walked in and called out, “Jakoub!”

  He emerged from the back area, frowned at me, and said, “What is it?” I thought his tone rather brusque, almost impatient.

  I said, “I believe you have some things for me.”

  He looked at me from under the frown, I think finding something familiar about my voice. I took my beret off, and the change in his facial expression was quite gratifying; I guess I really can do a decent disguise. “My lo—”

  “
Yes, yes. Do you have my things?”

  “They’re ready, m’lord.”

  “Excellent. I’ll wear the boots, but wrap the sheath up in something.”

  “At once, m’lord.”

  Sandor had never expected to be treated with that much respect.

  Jakoub reached under the counter, and produced the boots, as promised, then went off to get my new sheath. I went around the counter and sat on his stool, pulled off my old boots, and put the new ones on. Even as I was struggling with the left, the right was fitting itself to me, adjusting to the form of my foot. It tickled, especially when it worked its way up my calf. Jakoub watched my face carefully to see if I was happy with them, or else to catch me giggling.

  We hardened, cold-blooded killers don’t giggle very much.

  It took only about two minutes for both of them to finish their adjustments; Jakoub really was very good at what he did. He returned with the sheath. I inspected it, making sure all the nice little extras were in place and worked the way I expected them to. They did. I nodded and returned it to him. He bowed and wrapped it in the sort of paper they wrap fresh fish in at the market.

  “Will that be all, m’lord?”

  “Not quite,” I said. He tensed only a little, and waited.

  “On what day do you make deliveries to that house on Stranger’s Road?”

  “Homeday, m’lord.”

  “Do you ever run into anyone else making deliveries that day?”

  “Occasionally, m’lord.”

  “So I can assume that there are several people showing up there with money every day. That is, you know nothing to contradict that?”

  “No, m’lord.”

  I looked at him, trying to see if he was holding anything back. I can never tell, but I always look anyway. I nodded and tossed him a few extra coins, then left his shop.

  A quick trip to the room to drop off the sheath was enough time to convince me I was going to like the boots. Jakoub did good work. I hoped I wouldn’t have to kill him. I headed out, intending to go back to Stranger’s Road to see who else would show up there. I made it about halfway.

  “Boss—”

  “Hmm?”

  “Someone’s . . .”

  “Loiosh?”

  “I . . .”

  My stomach did a flip-flop and my brain shut down, but my feet took over, leading me into the first small side street I came to, and then into a doorway, so I was pretty much out of sight.

  “Can you come to me?”

  He didn’t say anything, but there was a flutter of wings, and Rocza landed on my left shoulder, Loiosh on my right. I felt a little better for a moment, until I realized that I was picking up feelings of panic from Rocza. If Rocza was scared, I was scared.

  “Loiosh, what is it?”

  “Fighting. . . .”

  He wobbled on my shoulder, and gripped it harder. I tried to think to Rocza, to ask her what was going on, but I didn’t sense that she understood. I felt her fear and confusion, an echo of my own. I touched Lady Teldra’s hilt. Then I must have drawn her, because she was in my hand, and I was looking around the empty street. A tingling—not unlike what I used to feel from Spellbreaker—ran up my wrist, my arm, my shoulder, to—

  “Thanks, Boss. That helped. I’m okay now.”

  “What helped? What did what? What happened?”

  “Someone tried to find me.”

  “And you stopped him? How?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I didn’t know you could do that.”

  “Neither did I. And I almost couldn’t.”

  “Can you tell me anything about what sort of spell it was?”

  “You mean, on account of I know so much about magic?”

  “Loiosh, you know how witchcraft feels.”

  “Well, it wasn’t that.”

  “Okay.”

  “. . . Exactly.”

  I sighed.

  “It’s hard to describe, Boss. It felt a little like that, but—”

  “Okay. Back to the room.”

  I sheathed Lady Teldra as Loiosh and Rocza launched themselves into the air again. I took a couple of steps, then stopped; I knew what I wanted to do. I dug out a stub of pencil and scrap of paper, and scribbled out a note.

  “Loiosh.”

  He landed on my shoulder and accepted the paper.

  “Get this where it needs to be.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then you act as guide.”

  I could feel some objections forming in my familiar’s mind, but he left them unsaid, and just launched himself into the air. Rocza remained in the area, keeping a lookout for me. I wandered around a bit, as I figured it would take Loiosh a couple of hours.

  I made it back to the room without incident. By the time I got there, Loiosh had completed his mission, as evidenced by the fellow floating cross-legged about six inches off the floor. I took just a second to close my eyes. The preliminaries were over; the meal was about to begin.

  “Hello, Daymar,” I said. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

  7

  FISH

  There is a god named Trout who dwells in the Halls of Judgment. I know he’s there, because I’ve seen him, but that’s another story. In truth, I know very little about him, except that the way his name is pronounced and the symbols used to represent those sounds are identical to the fish.

  No gods were brought to the table at Valabar’s; just fish. But then, there are those who have claimed that tasting the fish is akin to communing with the gods. On reflection, that can’t be true. I’ve communed with the gods, and eating the trout at Valabar’s is a much richer, more rewarding, and more enlightening experience.

  And certainly more pleasant.

  I don’t know any of the rituals that accompany the worship of the god named Trout, but the ritual for the fish at Valabar’s begins with a young man who unobtrusively removes your soup bowl, then returns a moment later and sets down a white plate with a tiny blue flower painted on the edge that he sets away from you. When you see that plate, there is at once a slight quickening of the pulse; you don’t yet know what sort of fish will be showing up, but the plate tells you:This is serious, it’s time to get to work.

  Next, after an interminable wait of perhaps half a minute, Mihi shows up holding a silver platter in his left hand and two serving spoons in his right. On the platter are two large fish and several spears of goslingroot.

  Telnan looked curious. I sat back and smiled. Mihi winked at me, which was not part of the ritual, but that was okay.

  “Freshwater trout,” announced Mihi, “from the Adrilankha River, stuffed with carrot slivers, fresh rosemary, salt, crushed black pepper, a sprinkling of powdered Eastern red pepper, minced garlic, and sliced lemon wedges. Accompanied by fresh goslingroot, quick-steamed in lemon butter.”

  Then, wielding the serving spoons like tongs, he reverently delivered some fish and vegetable onto our plates.

  I reverently started eating.

  I can’t tell you a lot about the trout, other than what Mihi said, except that Mr. Valabar had once let slip that it was double-wrapped in a heat-resistant parchment so that it was steam that actually cooked it. If I knew more, I’d make it myself, as best I could. A great deal of the art of Valabar’s, of course, consisted in putting astonishing amounts of effort into making sure that each ingredient was the freshest, most perfect that could be found. It’s all in the details, just like assassination. Though with a good fish, more is at stake.

  “If you’re going to be a hero,” I said, “I imagine it’s important to pay attention to the details.”

  “Hmmm?”said Telnan. “Uh, nothing. I was just thinking aloud.”

  “Oh. This is really good.”

  “Yes.”

  “The most important thing about heroics is preparation.”

  “Hmmm?”

  He swallowed and said, “If you’re going to march into a place horribly outnumbered, the big thing is to work yoursel
f into a state where you don’t mind dying, but can work to prevent it, and to have all of your spells prepared in your mind, and to make sure, well, that everything you can do is done and ready. It’s the preparation they talk about. Is that what you meant by heroics?”

  I nodded, even though I hadn’t meant much of anything. But my mind chewed over his words as my mouth did the same with the fish.

  “The only thing I can’t figure out,”I said after a while, “is why.”

  Telnan swallowed and said, “Why?”

  “Why put yourself in a position where you’re unlikely to survive?”

  “Oh.”He shrugged. “It’s fun,”he said, and ate some fish.

  I should tell you about Daymar. I should, but I’m not sure if I can. Daymar was of the House of the Hawk, and typified much of the House: perceptive, clever, and, as they say, with a head so much in the Overcast that it had seeped in. He was tall, lanky, and, stooped a bit when he walked. He liked me for reasons I’ve never understood, especially when I recall our first meeting. His skills—but you’ll pick those up as we go.

  “Hello, Vlad. A few minutes, no more. What can I do for you?”

  “Loiosh.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Loiosh. That’s what you can do for me.”

  He raised an eyebrow, which is just about his only expression. “What about him?”

  “Someone attempted some form of location spell on him.”

  “What form?”

  “That’s the problem. I don’t know.”

  “It wasn’t sorcery?”

  “No.”

  “So you’re thinking it was psychics?”

  “Can that be done?”

  “Well, no, not exactly. You can’t use psychics to find where someone is. I mean, in a physical sense.”

  “But you can locate him in a non-physical sense?”

  Daymar nodded.

  I carefully kept my face expressionless. “What does that mean, exactly? I mean, if you can’t locate him physically, what can you do?”

  “Locate him mentally.”