Steven Brust: Jhegaala

The river was of respectable girth; I'd say a good quarter of a mile across. I watched it for a while. There is something calming about watching a river. I know some people get that feeling from watching the ocean, but I prefer a nice river. When I was a kid, I used to stand on the Chain Bridge and watch the Adrilankha River float by under me for hours at a time. This river didn't have any such pretensions; it didn't even have any river traffic, at least while I was watching just then. But it was soothing. I had never asked Cawti how she felt about rivers; it had somehow never come up.

I left my dignity there, then walked out to the end of the dock in front of me and sat down. The river was a sort of dingy brown, but if there was any smell to it, it couldn't penetrate the rotting-vegetation smell of the factory. I watched the river as if I had a reason to, as if I were on a job. But I wasn't. I didn't have anything I really had to do. I had idle curiosity about my mother's family and a bit of a clue to follow up on, but it wasn't important. I'd maybe ask a few questions, and see if anyone could tell me anything, but beyond that, my life was focused around not letting the Jhereg get to me. I was going from, not toward. It was a new experience. I wasn't certain if it would come to bother me, someday in the future when I would start to feel things again. I wondered where I would be when that happened. Alone, I hoped.

I suddenly wished I had a handful of pebbles to throw into the water one at a time, to listen to them plunk and watch the ripples.

I must have sat there for a couple of hours; then I got up and went back to the inn, where the host was convinced to feed me some of yesterday's bread with a goat's milk cheese, smoked sausage, and some coffee with warmed cream, chocolate, and beet sugar. It was a little stuffy inside, and for just an instant I was going to ask him to open a window, when I realized why it was closed.

I finished eating and went back to the host, who was sitting on a tall stool behind the bar, his head back against the wall and his eyes closed. He opened them when my footsteps approached. I said, "My name is Vlad."

He hesitated, and then said, "Inchay."

I nodded, and decided that was enough sociability for the moment; I headed back out into the stench.

You don't need to hear about the next several hours. I walked around, nodding to a few people and getting to know the town. It was big, as such places go, with a couple hundred identical shacks at the far end, a shoemaker and a dry goods store to support them, and a spot for the market to set up come Endweek. The area around the shacks was a lot filthier than the farms I'd seen. And I saw other things, nothing worth noting.

As the shadows became long, I returned to the inn and had them feed me on a roasted fowl basted with sweet wine. As I was eating, two of the barmaids appeared wearing simple peasant gowns. They vanished into a room in the back of the inn, then emerged a few minutes later with their ankles showing and their breasts stretched taut against yellow or blue fabric. The one with curly, dark hair asked if I needed anything, and I accepted ii glass of the local red wine, which was a bit acidic, but drinkable.

As it grew dark outside, the place filled up again. I was seated along the back wall, and this time, I suppose because I wasn't hungry and exhausted, I paid more attention to the people around me.

I realized that I knew at once those who worked at the paper factory, because they wore simpler clothing than the peasants who had dressed up to spend an evening drinking and wore bright blues and reds and yellows; those who worked in the mill whore simple clothing of dark green or brown. The young ones with long hair and were clean shaven; the older ones had mustaches or neatly trimmed beards. There were only a couple of mill groups of these; most of the patrons were obviously peasants, some of them too young to shave. And there were still no one in the place, save the barmaids. The more I sat there, stranger it seemed that it was so easy to identify which group they were part of, and that they all held so rigidly to their style. The groups didn't mix with each other, either.

In he sure, there were a few who didn't belong to any group: One fellow with bright, teary eyes who grinned a lot through missing teeth and wore black pants and a white shirt blue coat and several rings. And another who had high boots and mustaches that fell well below his chin. And the barrel-chested one in the blue felt vest with inky black hair that fell behind his shoulder in thick curls.

"What do you think of those three, Loiosh?"

"Dunno, Boss. If we were home, I'd take the toothy one and the mustached one as merchants. Couldn't guess about Curly."

"That's what I was thinking as well. How come there are no women in this place?"

"I couldn't guess, Boss. Ask someone?"

"I think I will.”

While I was deciding what to ask, who to ask it of, and how to approach it, the problem was taken out of my hands by the guy in the blue felt vest, who came up to my table, glanced at the jhereg on my shoulders, and said, "Mind if I join you?"

I nodded at one of the empty chairs.

He sat down smoothly and held up a hand; in a few minutes, a barmaid came over and brought him a tiny porcelain cup, which he lifted in my direction. "Barash Orbahn. Call me Orbahn."

"Merss Vladimir," I lied, lifting my own. "Vlad."

He frowned a little. "Merss? An unusual name."

"Yes," I said.

He downed his drink and winced, shivered, shook his head, and smiled. I sipped from mine. "What are you drinking?"

"Rakia. Plum brandy."

"Ah. I should have guessed. My grandfather used to look like that when he drank it."

He nodded. "It's imported from the South. I don't know why we import it, or why anyone drinks it. A test of manhood, maybe." He grinned. He had all of his teeth, and they were very white.

I chuckled. "The local palinka is good, and I think safer."

"A wise man," he said. Then, "If you'll forgive me, you have a trace of something foreign in your speech."

I nodded. "I've come here from some distance away."

"And yet, your name is distinctly local."

"Is it?" I said. "I hadn't realized."

He nodded.

"Not surprising," I said after a moment. "I have family from here."

"Family? Or kin?"

In Fenarian, those are different words, with rather more of a difference than in the Northwestern language. "Kin," I said. "Think you might know anyone I might be related to?"

"Hmm. I'll have to think about it. This is a pretty big town, you know."

No, it wasn't. "Yes, it is."

After a moment I said, "No offense to your town, but it stinks."

He smiled. "Yes, I suppose. Believe it or not, after a while you don't notice it at all."

"You can get used to anything, I suppose."

"Indeed."

"Maybe you can tell me something else."

"Sure."

"Why aren't there any women in here?"

His eyes widened. "Women go into taverns where you're from?"

"If they want a drink."

"I see. That, ah, doesn't happen here."

"Why not?"

"Well, because..." He frowned and seemed to be searching for words. "Because it wouldn't be right," he finally said.

I nodded and didn't push it. "What do you do?"

"Beg pardon? Oh. I import and export liquor."

"So the rakia is your fault?"

He smiled and nodded. "I drink it as a sort of penance."

"A man of high moral character, I see."

"Not that high; I'm a trader." He signaled the barmaid and she brought him another. "So, ask me your next question; it seems I am today the man with the answers."

"All right," I said. "Why are the streets so wide?"

"Eh? Are they?"

"Wider than I'm used to. A lot wider."