Steven Brust - Orca

Loiosh said, “Should I follow them? Oh, never mind; they’ve just teleported. I can show you where they tele-ported from if you want.”

“I have no intention of tracing anyone’s teleport, Loiosh; I just want to get out of here. Keep watching.”

“Okay, boss.”

I crossed the street and turned right at the first corner I came to, then right again, then left, then left again, and then right, then I went straight for a while, then I stopped and looked around, having gotten myself lost enough to have a chance of confusing anyone else.”

“Well?”

“All clear, boss.”

“Okay, back home, then.”

“I’ll keep watching.”

We made it back to the cottage, both of us looking around fairly often. Buddy seemed happy to see me, Rocza seemed happy to see Loiosh, the old woman didn’t seem happy about anything, and Savn didn’t seem to care one way or another. I sat down at the table, closed my eyes, and took my first deep breath in what seemed like a year or so.

The old woman looked at me and didn’t ask any questions, wherefore I gave her no answers. I really wished you were here, Kiera, because I felt the need to confess and to have some help sorting out what had just happened. It had all made sense—Loftis figuring it out, sitting me down where he could give me one chance to come clean, and then having his people arrest me—up to the point where they’d killed him.

They’d killed him.

Had he been surprised by who came through the door? Or that anyone showed up? Or only by what they did?

He didn’t break the stick.

That was a good one; I’d love to have found out what it meant, but there was no one around to ask. If I’d understood it, no doubt it would turn out to be the code phrase that made everything clear, and indicated exactly what I should do next. More probably, it went back to his childhood and had something to do with being hurt—at least, that’s the sort of thing that went through my head when I decided I was about to become damaged, or maybe dead.

I regretted him. He was an honest son of a bitch, in spite of what he was doing, and he’d struck me as good at his job, although the only trace of evidence for that was that he’d hit you the same way, Kiera, so maybe he was really just a fool who knew how to impress people like us.

I wished his last meal had been better, though.

I said, “How’s the boy, Mother?”

“No change,” she said.

I said, “Savn?” He didn’t seem to hear me. He was staring into the hearth as if it was the only thing in the world. At least there weren’t any knives in it. I said, “Do you have any great ideas?”

She glared at me, then stood up, which took her quite a while. She came over and sat beside me, saying in a low voice, “I don’t think I’m going to attempt the dreamwalk; at least, not for a while. He is responding, in a way, so that’s some improvement. I want to know how far we’ll get. I want to know if we can get him talking about something other than knives.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I’ve been talking to him. You could try it too.”

“Just talking to him?”

“Yes.”

“Even though he doesn’t respond?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” I said.

She nodded, and I went over and sat down next to him. “So how are you, boy?” I said. He didn’t respond. “I hope you’re feeling well physically, at least.” I felt like an idiot. The old woman got up and went outside, taking Buddy with her.

“It’s been about a year now, Savn.” I said. “Look, I hope you know that I’m sorry about what happened. You were never supposed to get involved in it.”

He stared at the hearth and didn’t move.

“You saved my life, you know. Twice. First, when I was injured, and then again. That isn’t something I forget. And all those things you said to me, they were hard to hear, but it was probably good for me.” I laughed a little. “Most things that are good for you hurt, maybe. To the left, though, most things that hurt aren’t good for you. There’s a nice riddle, if you want one. Do you like riddles? Do you like puzzles? I’m working on a puzzle now, Savn, and it has me pretty thoroughly stumped. I’d like to talk it over with you. You’re a pretty sharp kid, you know.

“Why was Loftis killed? That’s a puzzler, isn’t it? He was working for someone in the Empire who was trying to hide the fact that Fyres was murdered, because if Fyres was murdered, they’d have to look into who killed him, and they’d probably never find out, but they would find out who wanted him dead, and that was a lot of people with a lot of connections to some of the people who keep our Empire chugging along. So maybe someone didn’t want the information hidden. I can imagine that, Savn. But that’s no reason to kill Loftis—it would be much easier, and probably cheaper, just to let someone, say the Warlord, or Lord Khaavren, or even Her Majesty, know what was going on. Killing Loftis doesn’t make any sense.

“And it couldn’t be to help hide what he was doing, because now they’re going to have to investigate that, and that will almost certainly lead them to find out everything. But if that was the goal, it was going about it the hard way, and the dangerous way, and people don’t do that when there’s a safe way and an easy way to do things—except maybe Dzurlords, and they don’t get into the sort of subtle thinking that goes along with it. I just can’t make it fit, Savn. What do you think?”

Evidently he thought the hearth was fascinating.

“There’s got to be a piece of this I’m not seeing—a piece of information I don’t have. I wish I had more sources, like I used to. It used to be I could just snap my fingers and people would go scurrying to discover everything I needed to know. Now all I’ve got is what I can learn myself (with the help of Loiosh and Rocza, and a few minstrels). Should I go find a minstrel and talk to him, Savn? You were there the last time I did that, and I got some useful information, too. Remember her? She was quite something, wasn’t she?

I remember thinking you were getting a crush on her, and I couldn’t blame you. I was, too, if truth be known, but she’s Dragaeran, and I’m an Easterner, and there you have it. Besides, I imagine she doesn’t think much of me now, with what I’ve done to you. I suspect she blames me, and she’s right to. I blame me, too.”

I sat next to him and stared at the hearth. It was getting a bit chilly; maybe I should get a fire started. Back where Savn had come from, they were harvesting flax about now. They probably missed him.

“All right,” I told him. “I’ll go find a minstrel, and I’ll see what the word is about Fyres, and about the investigation, and about the banks. Maybe I’ll learn something. At least it’ll keep me busy.”

I stood up. “I’ll talk to you later, all right?” He didn’t object, so I headed out the door. The old woman was sitting on a wicker chair in front of the house, Buddy curled up beside her. I had the uncomfortable feeling she’d heard everything I said. I wondered if her whole reason for having me talk to him was so she could listen in, but I dismissed the thought; if there was one person in the whole mess who wasn’t devious, it was her. But this affair was enough to make anyone paranoid, so I acquitted myself of paranoia and wrapped my cloak a little tighter around myself, because it was getting cold. Why is it you notice the weather more when you’re out of town? I don’t remember paying much attention to the weather when I lived in Adrilankha, even though I spent a lot of time walking around outside.

Minstrels, I’ve found, are rather like boot hooks—you keep running into them every time you go into your closet to find something else, but the minute you realize you need one they vanish without a trace. After walking all the way into Northport, I must have spent three hours going from one inn to another, and nowhere was there anyone singing for his supper, or telling stories in exchange for a room, or even sitting passed-out in the corner with a reed-pipe on his lap.