Steven Brust - Jhegaala

The place started filling up quickly as dark came, mostly with men who had both the look and the smell of the factory across the river. There were also a few girls, all of whom wore gowns with obvious ties down the front and ankles uncovered. Sometimes one would leave with a workman, heading into the back. A couple of them looked at me, but none came over.

I studied the people, for lack of anything else to do, and worked on memorizing the faces for no reason except that it's good practice. Eventually, I made my way out the door and around back. The stable was directly to the rear about fifty feet, and, from what I could see, connected to a sort of paddock. Outside of it was a tall coach, and even in the dim light that leaked out of the inn it seemed to glisten. There was a marking of some sort on the door, and no horses were attached. Where there was a coach, there would be a coachman. And where there's a coachman, there are stories. And where there are stories, there are answers to questions, and maybe even the right ones.

I went in.

It smelled of fresh hay, old hay, wet hay, moldy hay, and manure. It was a big improvement. There were ten stalls, four of which were occupied by horses of various colors and sizes, the fifth by a skinny fellow wearing black, with a high-domed forehead over thick brows, making him look, well, a bit ridiculous. His hands were folded over his stomach, and there were several odd white scars crisscrossing the backs of them. He sat on a low stool, and his eyes were closed, but opened as I came closer; I saw no trace of sleep in them, nor sign of drunkenness—the latter being unusual, if you believe all you've heard about coachmen.

"If you've come for a ride to the manor," he said in a clear voice, somewhat higher pitched than you'd guess from looking at him, "you're too late. If you've come for a story, you're too early. If you've come to buy me a drink, your timing could not be improved."

"I have questions and money," I said.

"Make the money liquid, and I'll answer the questions."

"Good enough. What do you wish?"

"Wine. White wine. And the better it is, the better your answers will be."

"I'll be back directly."

He nodded and closed his eyes.

He opened them a few minutes later when I returned with his wine as well as something red for myself. He sniffed his, drank it, nodded, and said, "Grab a stool." There were a few low three-legged stools like a cobbler uses; I took one and sat on it opposite him. The horses shifted around, and one of them eyed me suspiciously as I walked in front of him. Or her. Or it. Or maybe it was looking at Loiosh and Rocza.

I sat down and said, "My name is Vlad."

He nodded. "They just call me Zollie, Kahchish, or Chish." He took some more wine. "Good choice. All right, Vlad. You had questions?"

"Many, many, many."

His smile was friendly. I believed it, provisionally. So, where to start?

"Do you know a family called Merss?"

"Sure," he said. "About six miles north, the little road past the walnut trees. Big white house that looks like it's been added to a lot. Unless you mean the cousins; they moved away some years ago. I don't know where, but probably to Fenario. The city, I mean."

"Oh," I said. "Thanks."

"It's about a half-hour ride."

"I don't ride."

He looked genuinely startled. "You've never been on a horse?"

"I have been; that's why I don't ride."

"Mmmm. Very well. What else?"

"Why wouldn't anyone else answer my question about them?"

"They're scared of the Guild."

"Yeah," I said. "The Guild. That would be my next question."

"It's everyone's question. Mine too. No one quite knows how it came to be what it is."

"You must know some of the history."

He finished his wine and held the mug out to me. "Some," he said.

"Keep it," I told him. "I'll be back with a jug."

"I'll be here," he said.

The place had filled up a bit, so it took me about ten minutes to get back. I handed him the jug and settled down again. "All right," I said. "The Guild."

"Yes. The Guild." He studied me for a bit. "Why the interest?"

"I kept running into them while I was trying to learn about the Merss family."

He studied me more carefully. "They're kin, aren't they?"

"I always thought I took after my father."

"The way your nostrils flare. Most of them have that. Is that what brings you to Burz?"

"Yes and no," I said.

He waited for me to continue, and when I didn't he just shrugged.

"Fenario is old kingdom, Vlad. Very old. Two thousand years, the same people, in the same land."

I didn't comment on how short two thousand years would seem to Morrolan or Aliera, much less to Sethra; I just nodded.

He continued, "The borders have shifted a bit over the years, and other things have changed." I nodded, because he seemed to expect it. He continued. "For the last few hundreds of years, the King hasn't been too concerned with the outlying provinces. He's done what he's had to make sure the borders are secure, and other than that, pretty much left it up to the local Count to do as he would."

"Except for his taxes, I suppose."

"Sometimes yes, sometimes no."

"Mmm."

He shrugged. "Believe me, or not. As often as not, the King doesn't seem to care if the taxes are collected. At least, this far west. I suppose if he demands too much, he'll only encourage smuggling."

"All right," I said.

"So when things happened, we were on our own."

"What things?"

"The story is that the Count, the old Count, my Lord's grandfather, went off his head. Started thinking all the witches were trying to kill him or something."

"Were they?"

"Eventually."

"Hmmm."

"I don't know the whole story, of course. No one does. But somehow, the local witches split themselves into those who wanted to hide from the Count until his madness passed, and those who wanted to do something."

"Something like...?"

"I don't know. Kill him? Cure him? What's the difference?"

"You remind me of some people I know."

He poured more wine into his mug. "So there was a long time—ten years? twenty? thirty?—when all the Count was doing was fighting witches. There are songs that list the diseases he contracted and was cured of. They probably aren't true either, but I imagine he was pretty busy. Still, things had to be managed, so it ended up with the Merchants' Guild more or less running things."

"Well, and later Counts? Didn't they have anything to say about that?"

"As I understand it, the old Count's son settled things for good and all."

"How did he do that?"

"Made a deal. You don't hurt me, I won't hurt you. Usually the Count is happy to get his silver and sit at home complaining about poachers."

"Strange."

"It's a strange town."

"Yes, you can smell that much."

He nodded. "The peasants don't like the stench from the factory, and they don't like all of their sons leaving the land to work indoors, but the factory is how the Count gets his silver, so the merchants make sure nothing interferes with it. They don't want the Count complaining to Fenario, you see, because there just might someday be a King who actually cares what's going on."

"A strange town," I repeated. "What's the difference between those witches who fought the Count and those who didn't?"

"Eh?"

"I mean, how has that changed?"

"Oh. I've no idea. No one except witches ever talk about it, and I've never studied the Art. Some say that those who were loyal to the Count only have birds and mice as familiars. I don't know if that's true."

"Is any of what you've told me true?"

He considered that. "I'm telling you a story. If you want history, go, ah, elsewhere. I don't know if it's true. We pass these things on, we coachmen."