Steven Brust - Orca

But diligence is sometimes rewarded. Seven times I asked locals where I might find some music. One didn’t know, three didn’t bother talking to me, and two were rude enough that I felt obligated to give them some minor damage as a lesson in courtesy. The seventh, however, was a pleasant young Teckla woman with flowing skirts and amazing black eyes who directed me to a public house about half a mile away, with feathers on its sign. I found it with no trouble (which surprised me just a little, as I’d become pessimistic about the whole adventure by that point) and I made my way into the small, smoke-filled little inn, in amongst a large crowd of mostly Teckla, with a couple of Orca and Chreotha surrounded by the entourage the minor nobility invariably attracts in such places, and, at the far end, a middle-aged Teckla playing a fretted gordstring as softly as such a twangy instrument can be played, and actually fairly well.

One part of a bench in the middle of the room was open, and I took it. Loiosh was with me, which may have accounted for some of the looks I got, but more likely they just weren’t used to Easterners in there. The singer’s voice was high and probably would have been unpleasant, but he picked songs that fit it—I suppose that’s part of being a minstrel, just like part of being an assassin is knowing which jobs to take and which ones to leave alone. Eventually someone came by and brought me some wine, which I drank quickly because it wasn’t very good, and some time later the minstrel stopped playing.

He stayed where he was and drank, and after a while I approached him. He looked at me, looked at Loiosh, and seemed uncomfortable, which was only natural. I said quietly, “My name is Vlad,” and watched his face very closely for any sign of recognition.

“Yes?” he said. No, he didn’t seem to recognize the name, which was good news. The first time a minstrel recognizes my name is the last time I can pull this stunt.

“Can we talk for a few minutes?”

“About what?”

I showed him the ring, then quickly put it away. The ring, by the way, represented one of the last things I arranged before I left Adrilankha; its design is a recognition symbol for the Minstrels’ Guild, so when I showed it to him, he just said, “I see” and “Yes.”

“I’m going to walk outside and cross the street. Meet me in twenty minutes, all right?”

“All right. Yes. How much—?”

“Ten imperials, or maybe more if you can help me.”

“All right.”

I nodded and left the place, walking around for a little while and eventually circling back. Loiosh flew around to look for signs of someone setting something up, but I didn’t expect anything like that, and there wasn’t.

After twenty minutes, he left the inn and crossed the street, and I stepped up next to him. “Let’s walk together,” I said, handing him ten coins. I’d said that to someone earlier that day, too.

We strolled together through the dark and quiet streets. This part of the city was far from the docks, and very narrow, and looked nothing at all like anywhere in Adrilankha, which I rather liked. I said, “What have you heard about Fyres?”

“The Orca?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I mean, you know that he’s dead.”

“Yes. How did he die?”

“An accident on his yacht.”

“Are you certain?”

We walked a little further. He said, “I’ve heard rumors, whispers. You know.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t. Tell me.”

“Who are you?”

“A friend of the Guild.”

“Is there going—? That is, am I—?”

“In danger? No, as long we aren’t seen together, and probably not even if we are.”

“Probably not?”

“That’s why we aren’t talking inside, and why we’re staying to areas without much light. Now, you were saying?”

“There’s been talk that he was murdered.”

“By whom?”

“People.”

“What sort of people?”

“Just people.”

“Why do they think so?”

“I don’t know. But I’ll tell you something: every time someone famous dies, however he dies, people say he was murdered.”

“You think that’s all it is?”

“Yeah. Am I wrong?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to find out. I’m asking you questions to find out. And I’m paying you. You have no reason to suspect—uh—foul play?”

“Not really, no.”

“All right. What about all these bank closings?”

“It’s the Empire.”

“The Empire closed the banks?”

“No, but they allowed it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they aren’t supposed to do that—let banks just close, anytime they want to; they’re supposed to protect people.”

“Why didn’t they?”

“Because the bankers paid them.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

“How?”

He didn’t answer. I said, “How much did you lose?”

“Almost eight hundred imperials.”

“I see. Is that how you know?”

He didn’t answer. I sighed. I wasn’t getting a whole lot that I could use. I said, “What about the Jhereg?”

“What about them?”

“Are they involved?”

“With the banks? I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of that.”

Oh, good. I was supposed to be tracking down rumors, and instead I was starting them. What I wanted to say was, “Can you tell me anything useful?” but that wasn’t likely to produce results. I said, “What can you tell me about the people being kicked off their land?”

“Just what everyone knows,” he said. “It’s happening a lot, and no one knows why.”

“What do you mean, no one knows why?”

He shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t make any sense, does it? You get a notice of eviction, and then you go see if you can buy the place, and the owners have gone out of business.”

“That’s been happening a lot?”

“Sure. All over the place. I’m one of the lucky ones: we’re still on Lord Sevaana’s land, and he’s still all right, as far as anyone knows. But I have friends and relatives who don’t know what’s going on, or what to do about it, or anything.”

I don’t know why I’d assumed the old woman’s case was unique, but apparently I was wrong. That was certainly interesting. Who could stand to gain by forcing people to leave their land so it could be sold and then not selling it? And why force them to move before offering them the chance to buy it themselves? And how could Fyres’s death have set all this off? And who wanted Loftis dead, and why? And—

No, wait a minute.

“Has anyone actually been made to move off his land yet?”

“Huh? Not this soon. No one could move that quickly, even if they made us.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” But still ...

“Is there anything else?” said the minstrel.

“Huh? What? On, no. Here. Vanish.” I gave him another ten imperials. He vanished.

“What is it, boss?”

“The inkling of the germ of a thread that might lead to the beginning of an idea.”

“Sure, boss. Whatever you say.”

“I think I might have a piece of something, anyway. Let me think for a minute.”

He was polite enough not to make any of the obvious rejoinders, so I thought as I strolled. It isn’t all that easy to just think, keeping your mind concentrated on the subject, unless you’re talking to someone or writing things down, which is one reason I like to talk to Loiosh as I’m putting things together, but what I had right then wouldn’t fit itself into words because it wasn’t precise enough—it was just the vague, unformed notion that I’d, well, not exactly missed something, but that I’d been putting the wrong slant on things.