Steven Brust - Jhegaala

At this time of the day—it was still early afternoon—I had the place to myself save for a bored-looking middle-aged barmaid, who asked if I wanted anything. My appetite had returned, so I ended up getting some decent bean soup and a loaf of bread served with garlic cloves and a lot of butter. Good butter.

As the barmaid was bringing me a glass of bitter-tasting wine called Enekesner (I got the name to be certain I never accidentally ordered it again), I asked her when Eelie would be showing up.

"Won't be in today," she said.

"Where can I find her?"

She looked me over. She'd done something to darken her eyebrows, and something else to make her lips shiny. I've always wondered about stuff like that. But not too much.

"Don't waste your time," she said.

"Is she a friend of yours?"

She shrugged. "Not especially. Why?"

I pulled out three silver coins and let them ring on top of the table. "Where can I find her?"

Her eyes widened, and she said, "Upstairs, room at the end of the hall."

I was glad the barmaid hadn't been a friend of hers; it would have cost me another coin. I took my time finishing the meal, then went to the back and up the stairs. I had to hit the door twice before I heard a faint voice say, "What is it?"

"My name is Merss," I said. "I want to talk to you."

"Go away," she suggested.

"Open the door," I suggested back, "or I'll knock the bloody thing down."

There was a pause, and the door opened. She was pretty enough, I guess, except for her eyes. She'd been crying.

"Tell me what you know," I said, continuing with the whole suggestion line.

"What the hell does it matter to you?" She started crying again. I ignored it.

"I'm going to find out who did it, and kill him," I said.

Her red eyes widened a little. "Why?" she said, barely whispering.

"I'm just in that kind of a mood," I said. "Tell me what you know."

She hesitated again, then stood aside, which I took as an invitation to enter her room. I did so, and she shut the door. It was a tiny room, with little enough to show who she was, and that little I paid no attention to. There was the bed and a chair. She didn't suggest I sit, so I just stood there and waited.

"You talked to him last night," she said.

"Yeah."

"He told me about you. He thought you ..."

"What?"

"He thought you were funny." She started sobbing. I leaned against the door and waited. A moment later she said, "I'm sorry."

"I'm told a witch killed him."

"He had the witch-mark."

"What is the witch-mark?"

Her eyes flicked to Loiosh and Rocza, then back to me; her forehead was creased. "Different lands, different customs, different ways of doing things," I told her. "I've heard of a witch's mark, something that indicates a person is a witch. I don't think you're using the term that way, and, anyway, I don't believe in them. Fill me in. What is a witch-mark?"

"When they found him, his lips were red."

"Um," I said. "Why is that called a witch-mark?"

"You really don't know?"

Patience, Vlad. "I really don't know."

"A witch will send an imp down your throat to your heart. The imp leaves red footprints on the lips."

There were some problems with that—the first being that you can't really get to the heart from the throat (you pick up a bit of anatomy when you kill people for a living), the second being that I don't believe in imps.

To be sure, there is a way to kill someone using the Art that will leave red lips; it involves a simple transformation, replacing the contents of his lungs with the smoke from your brazier. But—

Okay, now wasn't the time. "All right," I said. "Where was he found?"

She looked at me for a long moment, then looked at her bed, then back at me.

"Oh," I said.

"He was going to marry me," she said. "He told me so."

I nodded, choosing not to ask when he had told her and how many times for fear she might take it the right way. Okay, so I'm a bastard; but there are limits. "I'm sorry," I told her. "I'll leave you alone now."

"You'll find out who did it?" she said, and there was something a little scary in her eyes.

"Yes, I will. I'll also find out why."

"And you'll kill him?"

"Yes," I said. "I will."

"Good," she said. "Will you make it slow?"

"I'll make it certain."

She nodded.

Okay, maybe I shouldn't have told her that; I certainly would never have admitted that I was going to kill someone to anyone, ever, back in the Empire. And maybe I was a bit too contemptuous of what this kingdom used for law, and should have been more worried. But I wanted to give her that much, and, in the event, of all the things that turned around and bit me, that wasn't one; so I guess I got away with it, if you like.

I left her and went back down to the main room and from there back into the stench. It hit me hard that time, I remember; almost like a blow. My stomach turned and I actually gagged there, in the street; the reeking foulness of the whole town was suddenly, just for a moment, too much for me. I made my way back to the Pointy Hat; I can remember my eyes felt glazed and it was all I could do to put one foot in front of another until I'd passed the threshold.

I made it to my table, and, yeah, they had the same subtle incense here they did at the other place, only I couldn't see where it came from. It helped, though. I'd never been fond of incense before; it was another tool of the Art, not something one used just to brighten up one's day. I know that many witches—including my grandfather—live so that there is no clear distinction between practicing the Art and simply living; subtle spells and charms are part of his life. Not me; for me there had always been a sharp line: Here I was doing a spell, here I was done with it. But now, maybe that was changing. I could imagine getting very fond of incense. I could just imagine the look on Cawti's face when I told her I was— Yeah, shake it off, Vlad.

The thought of brandy repulsed me, and I didn't need coffee, so I did something unusual for me: I had the host draw me a summer ale. It was warmer than I'd have liked, but not too bitter. I nodded my approval to Inchay, who gave me a rare smile. I guess he was proud of his ale.

I sat and drank it slowly while my head stopped turning, and gradually I was able to focus on the problem in front of me. I got up and paced a bit, earning me a look from the host; then I sat down again. It hit me that one thing that was so odd was that there was so much violence going on, and I was pretty sure I was somehow at the center of it, but I wasn't doing any of it, and none of it was directed at me. I wasn't used to that.

Well, but let's think about that, Vlad. If they aren't trying to kill you, there's a reason.

The most likely reason is that they know that if they try, you're liable to put a nice pretty shine on a whole lot of them. Which immediately calls up the question: How do they know that? It isn't like I was walking around looking dangerous, or anything. Was the mere fact that I openly carried a blade sufficient to tell them? It didn't seem likely. So either they're good enough to spot me for what I am, or else they have some reason to suspect I'm someone they shouldn't touch. Or they know who I am.

To be sure, the Guild knew my name, as did whatever witch or witches had pulled it from my mind. But how much more had they gotten? Enough to know to get a message to the Jhereg? And, if so, would they want to? Would they know how?

It was possible. It was possible there was an assassin heading this way, right now, as fast as teleportation and feet could carry him. But why? If they were going to do that, it would be for the money. If they did manage to get hold of the right people in the Jhereg, they wouldn't be told to lay off me; they'd be told they could get a lot of money for delivering my head.