Steven Brust - Jhereg

She raised her eyebrow. “I’ll bet you don’t even know what it was,” she said.

I thought for a minute. Jhegaala eggs? No, she’d made that yesterday.

“Hey!” I said. “It was my night to do the cooking, wasn’t it?”

She grinned broadly. “Sure was, comrade. I’ve tricked you into owing me still another one. Clever, aren’t I?”

“Damn,” I said.

She shook her head in mock sadness. “That makes it, let me see now, about two hundred and forty-seven favors you owe me.”

“But who’s counting, right?”

“Right.”

I stood up then, still holding her hand. She followed me into the bedroom, where I paid back her favor, or she did me another one, or we did one for each other, depending on exactly how one counts these things.

The servants of Lord Keleth admitted me to his castle with obvious distaste. I ignored them.

“The Duke will see you in his study,” said the butler, looking down at me.

He held out his hand for my cloak; I gave him my sword instead. He seemed surprised, but took it. The trick to surviving a fight with a Dzur hero is not to have one. The trick to not having one is to seem as helpless as possible. Dzur heroes are reluctant to fight when the odds aren’t against them.

I’d been proud of the scheme that had led me here. It was nothing unusual, of course, but it was good, solid, low-risk, and had a high probability of gain. Most important, it was very—well— me. I’d been worried that my encounter with Aliera had dulled my edge, somehow changed me, made me less able to conceive and execute an elegant plan. The execution of this one was still unresolved, but I was no longer worried about the conception.

I was escorted to the study. I noted signs of disrepair along the way: chipping grate on the floor, cracks in the ceiling, places along the wall that had probably once held expensive tapestries.

The butler ushered me into the study. The Duke of Keletharan was old and what passes for “squat” in a Dragaeran, meaning that his shoulders were a bit broader than usual, and you could actually see the muscles in his arms. His face was smooth (Dzurlords don’t go in for wrinkles, I guess), and his eyes had that bit of upward slant associated with the House. His eyebrows were remarkably bushy, and he would have had a wispy white beard, if Dragaerans had beards. He was seated in a straight-backed chair with no arms. A broadsword hung at his side, and a wizard’s staff was leaning against the desk. He didn’t invite me to sit down; I did anyway. It is best to get certain things established at the beginning of a conversation. I saw his lips tighten, but that was all. Good. Score one for our side.

“Well, Jhereg, what is it?” he asked.

“My lord, I hope I didn’t disturb you?”

“You did.”

“A small matter has come to my attention which requires that I speak with you.”

Keleth looked up at the butler, who bowed to us and left. The door snicked shut behind him. Then the Duke allowed himself to look disgusted. “The ‘small matter,’ no doubt, being four thousand gold Imperials.”

I tried to look like I was trying to look apologetic. “Yes, my lord. According to our records, it was due over a month ago. Now, we have tried to be patient, but—”

“Patient, hell!” he snapped. “At the interest rates you charge, I’d think you could stand to hold off a little while with a man who’s having a few minor financial troubles.”

That was a laugh. As far as I could tell, his troubles were anything but “minor,” and it was doubtful that they would end any time in the near future. I decided, however, that it wouldn’t be politic to mention this, or to suggest that he wouldn’t be having these problems at all if he could control his fondness for s’yang stones. Instead, I said, “With all respect, my lord, it seems that a month is a reasonable length of time to hold off. And, again with all respect, you knew the interest rates when you came to us for help.”

“I came to you for ‘help,’ as you put it, because—never mind.” He had come to us for “help,” as I’d put it, because we had made it clear to him that if he didn’t, we would make sure that the whole Empire, particularly the House of the Dzur, knew that he couldn’t control his urge to gamble , or pay off his debts when he lost. Perhaps having a reputation as a rotten gambler would have been the worst thing about it, to him.

I shrugged. “As you wish,” I said. “Nevertheless, I must insist—”

“I tell you I just don’t have it,” he exploded. “What else can I say? If I had the gold, I’d give it to you. If you keep this up, I swear by the Imperial Phoenix that I’ll go to the Empire and let them know about a few untaxed gambling games I’m aware of, and certain untaxed moneylenders.”

Here is where it is helpful to know whom you are dealing with. In most such cases, I would have carefully let him know that if he did that, his body would be found within a week, probably behind a lower-class brothel, and looking as if he were killed in a fight with a drunken tavern brawler. I’ve used this technique before on Dzur heroes, and with good effect. It isn’t the idea of being killed which scares them, it is the thought of people thinking that they’d been killed in a tavern brawl by some nameless Teckla.

I knew this would frighten Keleth, but it would also send him into a murderous rage, and the fact that I was “unarmed and helpless” might not stop him. Also, if he didn’t kill me on the spot, it would certainly guarantee that he’d carry out his threat of going to the Empire. Clearly, a different approach was called for.

“Oh, come now, Lord Keleth,” I said. “What would that do to your reputation?”

“No more than it would do to it to have you expose my personal finances anyway, for not paying off your blood money.”

Dzur tend to be careless with terms, but I didn’t correct him. I gave him my patient-man-trying-to-be-helpful-but-almost-exasperated sigh. “How much time do you need?”

“Another month, maybe two.”

I shook my head, sadly. “I’m afraid that’s quite impossible. I guess you’ll just have to go to the Empire. It means that one or two of our games will have to find new locations, and a certain moneylender will have to take a short vacation, but I assure you that it won’t hurt us nearly as much as it will hurt you.”

I stood up, bowed low, and turned to leave. He didn’t rise to see me out, which I thought was rude, but understandable, under the circumstances. Just before my hand touched the doorknob, I stopped, and turned around. “Unless—”

“Unless what?” he asked, suspiciously.

“Well,” I lied, “it just occurred to me that there may be something you could help me out with.”

He stared at me, long and hard, trying to guess what kind of game I was playing. I kept my face expressionless. If I’d wanted him to know the rules, I’d have written them out.

“And what is that?” he asked.

“I’m looking for a little information that involves the history of your House. I could find out myself, I suppose, but it would take a little work that I don’t feel like doing. It is possible, I’m sure, for you to find out. In fact, you might even know already. If you could help me, I’d appreciate it.”

He was still suspicious, but he was beginning to sound eager, too. “And what form,” he asked, “will this ‘appreciation’ take?”

I pretended to think it over. “I think I could arrange for a two-month extension for you. In fact, I’d even go so far as to freeze the interest—if you can find this information for me quickly enough.”

He chewed on his lower lip for a while, thinking it over, but I knew I had him. This was too good a chance for him to pass up. I’d planned it that way.