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  “Oh, good.”

  It was about five minutes after that conversation that it hap­pened: A pale little Easterner, about my age, came walking almost right past me, and up the stairs of the house. He was carrying a small satchel. He started to pound on the door with his fist, stopped, set the satchel down, and clapped his hands. The door opened, and he entered.

  “So, was that what we were waiting for, Boss?”

  “Yep, that was it.”

  “It was very exciting.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Well, good. Now what?”

  “We wait some more.”

  “I was expecting that.”

  The Easterner was still holding the satchel when he left, just a couple of minutes later. He walked past me again.

  There is an art to following someone, and I’m afraid I’ve never mastered it. I’ve done it, and done all right, but I haven’t gotten exceptionally good at it because I’ve never had to.

  “Okay, Loiosh.”

  “On it, Boss.”

  “Can Rocza stay here, and keep watching the house?”

  “Sure.”

  Loiosh followed the runner, and I followed Loiosh. We skirted Six Corners, taking Stranger’s Road as it meandered northeast past shacks and cabins and small markets. Few people paid any atten­tion to me. I got a hopeful look from a skinny, dark-haired beggar who was sitting on the ground next to a pastry shop holding a tin to collect coins in and a small frying pan whose purpose was known only to himself. A stooped old man whose head was wrapped in a scarf leaned on a walking stick and looked like he was going to speak to me, but he must have changed his mind because he turned away and yelled something unintelligible to a fat woman on the other side of the street. Without turning her head, she called him something that sounded like a “fits” and made various obscene suggestions to him. Their conversation continued as I followed Loiosh’s directions and soon I couldn’t hear them anymore. A small group of street dancers danced for tips; the musicians, with violins and pipes, played a fiery chardosh that brought me back to the East for a while. The girls were pretty. I didn’t stop to tip them.

  The runner eventually made his way into a hatter’s shop. I didn’t follow him in because I didn’t want him to see me, and I already had a hat.

  “Now we wait some more, right?”

  “No, let’s head back.”

  “I don’t know if I can take the excitement, Boss.”

  “Nothing going on there, right?”

  “No one in or out, so far.”

  We returned to Stranger’s Road, and waited some more, and eventually another runner entered the house with another satchel, then came out, and I followed him, and got another place.

  By the end of the day, I had reacquainted myself with much of South Adrilankha: Potter’s Gate, the Drumhead, Donner’s Court, the Round. I had also identified six runners, and six loca­tions they lived in, worked out of, or at least visited. I had no idea if this information would be useful, but it at least gave me some vague idea of the amount of money involved in the operation. That’s one nice thing about the Jhereg: Almost all the time, you can measure the importance of any activity by its weight in gold and be pretty sure you’re right.

  How big was this operation?

  I’d seen six runners, all carrying satchels that were moderately heavy, no doubt with silver. Six a day, five days a week ... yes, that was a big enough operation to be worth a life here and there.

  And, yes, the Left Hand was now very definitely involved in an operation that had, until now, been reserved for the male side of the Jhereg.

  I picked up different bread and different sausages from a dif­ferent street vendor, returned to my room, and shared the meal with my familiars while I considered matters. The sausage was greasy, but I kind of like it that way.

  Loiosh and Rocza daintily picked up the last of the bread-crumbs with their feet, balanced on the other foot, and brought them to their mouths. It’s the least reptilian thing they do. I love watching them eat.

  “We done for the night, Boss?”

  “Not quite. I want to get an idea of how much action is going down in Donner’s Court. There didn’t used to be any at all.”

  I felt something like a psychic sigh.

  “Yeah, I know. You’re worked to death. Shut up.”

  I put Sandor back on and walked through the doorway as they flew out the window. Donner’s Court was a fair walk from my place, and most of it mildly uphill. The streets twisted here, but were generally wider than in much of Adrilankha, and it had a more prosperous look. This was where Sandor, were he really a clerk for a slaughterhouse, would be dreaming of living, in his own house purchased with his own money, with a tiny garden. He’d grow carrots, peas, and onions, and he’d find a fat little wife and raise children whom he would teach to respect the Empire above all. If rebellion should happen to break out, he would hide under his bed and he would never exactly tell his children that the poverty all around them was the fault of the poor, but he would talk a great deal about personal responsibility. Not, you understand, that I particularly give a damn about the poor; but at least I can be a bastard without hypocrisy. Sandor, though, would be extremely proud of his peas, terrified of everything beyond the confines of his yard, and I’d hang myself within six weeks.

  These, at any rate, were Sandor’s thoughts as he made his way up the gentle inclines of South Adrilankha to the Donner’s Court district. There was little street traffic, and most of that by footcabs, because footcabs are seen as a sign of almost-wealth, ly­ing somewhere between walking and owning a coach. The almost-wealthy are always more concerned with appearances than either of the extremes.

  The Donner’s Court area takes its name from a fairly small courtyard which is all that is left of what was once a sizable temple to Barlen, built, oddly enough, by an Easterner named Donner. A street named Harvoth leads into the court, and various shrines and altars to different deities line the quarter of a mile between the court and Donner’s Circle, where the local market is. This evening, there were a few people praying or making small offer­ings at these altars, and that seemed to be almost the only activ­ity in the area. If the Left Hand was making money from this district, which they must be because I’d seen the delivery, then I had no idea where it was coming from.

  I walked along near the shrines, trying to look respectful, and trying to figure out what big moneymaking operations for the Jhereg could be. There was a sudden movement behind me and to my left, and my hand slipped under my coat to touch the hilt of Lady Teldra, but even as that pleasant, reassuring warmth went through me I saw that it was only a bird taking flight, and relaxed. I kept my right hand on Lady Teldra’s hilt under my coat, just because it was pleasant to be in touch with her. I had seen Morrolan and Aliera caressing the hilts of their Great Weapons fairly often; now I understood why.

  There was a small icon next to me, about four feet in height, in the form of a rounded tower of black marble. I rested my left hand on it while I considered matters.

  This is not important, Taltos Vladamir, let her touch your thoughts as she will. However it may look, it doesn’t matter; let it drift into the shadows where your own demons dance about spots of light like the laughter of innocence. It doesn’t matter, because it is not real.

  It isn’t real? What did you mean when you said it wasn’t real, Goddess? I remember now; I remember your voice that went past my ears into my head, echoing there, and I don’t think you ever intended me to. But I remember the sounds that came like water, to drown me, and I was screaming denials inside my head, and you just kept droning on and on.

  Bitch.

  It was strange seeing Morrolan on his knees. It was stranger when there came a flicker, too clear to be my imagination, running along the length of the sword at which he stared; a sword made of marble, and held by a marble hand.

  Yes. That’s right. The statue had its own kind of life, and I intended to ask Morrolan if the spirit of Kieron dwel
t within the marble, or if it was a life of another sort. But I never did ask him. Because of that voice? Yes, because of that voice. And there was another voice, too, only for a moment.

  I’m sorry, Uncle Vlad. I have to. But it isn’t lost, and you’ll have it all back someday.

  Yes. There it was. And who do I trust now? She sounded so harmless; the epitome of all that could be trusted: sweet and inno­cent. But she was older than I, and she was Verra’s granddaughter. I had other memories of her, too, and many of them came rushing back, begging to be reinterpreted, with all my natural cynicism let loose on them. And I could feel the part of myself that wasn’t crippled fighting it, wanting to believe, fighting through those images as a swimmer fights a strong current

  There is pool of clear water in the Paths of the Dead, before the tall arch that leads to the Halls of Judgment, and you must immerse yourself in it before you pass through, as if to be purified. But it does not pu­rify you; it just removes from you that which might balk at accepting what you have just seen as real. It holds the secrets of the Paths, which is why you are warned not to swallow any of the water. By the time you are dry, you have forgotten how you got wet.

  Yeah, that’s how it began. There, in that pool. Perhaps a nat­ural part of that place, only now I knew that it hadn’t been oper­ating alone. The Goddess had dipped her hand into it, and into my head, and done what she had chosen to do for her own reasons. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to have remembered that pool, either. Maybe I only remembered it because she had tried to make me forget so many other things. Maybe she was being undone by her own deviousness.

  Around me are walls of white, white, white. I’m wondering why they are white, when I suddenly realize that the question should be: Why do I perceive them as white? And to ask it that way is to answer it, and then comes the touch again.

  That’s right! I had returned to her halls. I could hear myself asking her questions, demanding answers, and she just shook her head and started talking; I was seeing her distorted, as through a rippling pool, and as she spoke, I realized that how I was hearing her had nothing to do with my ears. I felt myself trembling all over again. Yes, it was coming back. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, and opened them again, trying to remember.

  Several people were staring at me, some of them asking if I was all right.

  “Boss? Say something, dammit!”

  “Uh ...”

  “That’s a start.”

  I was on my back, and the people around me were standing, looking down.

  “What happened, Loiosh?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Someone else asked if I was all right. I nodded, because I wasn’t sure if I could speak.

  “What happened?” said someone.

  I closed my eyes.

  “He’s been touched by the Demon Goddess,” said someone else, a touch of awe in his voice.

  “Drunk, more likely.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “He doesn’t look drunk.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Who are you?”

  I opened my eyes again, looking up at the circle of half a dozen faces staring down at me with expressions ranging from worry to suspicion.

  Who was I? Okay, that was a good place to start. I was Vlad, only I was calling myself Sandor right now, while involved in a tricky business to get Cawti out of trouble. The Left Hand of the Jhereg. Lady Teldra. I’d had a meal at Valabar’s yesterday. All right, my memory still worked.

  “Sandor,” I said. “My name is Sandor.”

  My voice still worked too.

  “And I’m not drunk,” I added.

  “What happened?” said one of the faces.

  “I don’t know.”

  I struggled to my feet, receiving kindly assistance I didn’t want, but at least learning that, yes, my legs were working. I smiled as pleasantly as I could, and slipped away, moving back toward Six Corners.

  Someone yelled for me to wait a minute. I chose not to.

  “Is anyone following me?”

  “No, they’re just staring.”

  “Good. They can stare.”

  I made it back to my room without incident, though my head was spinning to the point where it was a bit tricky to keep my eyes focused, and to remember where to go. When I finally made it, I threw off my coat and flopped on the bed as Loiosh and Rocza came through the window.

  “You okay, Boss?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What is it? What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. Something. My head. In my head.”

  “I know,” said Loiosh. “Me, too.”

  There was an edge of panic to Loiosh’s voice. I tried to think of something reassuring to say, but I was having trouble focusing my thoughts. Loiosh perched on the chair, and either there was something in the way he held himself that made him appear pensive, or else I was just picking it up from him. Rocza perched next to him, rubbing her neck against his.

  “What happened, Boss?”

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to make sense of it.”

  Sethra once told me that, when overwhelmed by the mysti­cal, start with the physical and mundane, and work both inward and outward from there. I never did understand the “inward and outward” part, but the advice still made sense.

  “Okay, the last thing I did was touch an altar of the Demon Goddess.”

  “You’ve done that before, Boss.”

  “Yeah.”

  “This didn’t happen before.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What was different?”

  “I didn’t have Lady Teldra?”

  “Yes, but were you touching her when you touched the altar?”

  “No, but—wait. Yes, I was.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes. I’m sure of it?”

  “Oh. Well. Isn’t it nice when we can solve mysteries so easily, Boss?”

  “Yeah. It’s great.”

  I relaxed onto the bed and closed my eyes. The bed was both lumpy and too soft; they must have paid extra for it.

  “Okay, I know some of what just happened: I just got some mem­ories back.”

  “Boss, that’s ... I don’t know what that is?”

  “Yeah.”

  I tried to concentrate; to work it out.

  Verra, the Demon Goddess, patron of my ancestors, had arranged for my perceptions to be altered, and for some of my memories to be suppressed. The best way to control someone’s actions is to control the information upon which he makes his decisions. Some methods of controlling someone’s information are nastier than others.

  None of which addressed the questions of what she wanted me to do, or to not do, and I wanted to know so that I could cross her, just out of spite.

  I realized that I was shying away from considering exactly which memories had been taken and were now restored, I guess for the same reason that, on a long-ago occasion when I’d been stabbed, I had tried not to picture the piece of steel that was inside of me. The whole idea was—

  “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 for-get 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.