Steven Brust - Jhegaala

I stared up at the ceiling for a long time. Then I nodded. " I had thought someone was playing me," I said. "I didn't realize that they were all playing me."

"Oh. Working together?"

"No. That's the thing. On their own, independently. That's what threw me. But the effect was as if they were working together."

After that he let me alone for a while. He knew I'd have to tell him about it eventually, and he can be an understanding little bastard on occasion.

Everything I'd said was true, and I was confident of all my conclusions, and the plan that was formulating in my head seemed sound. But there was still that one factor that I couldn't control, couldn't see, couldn't anticipate, and certainly couldn't ignore: The Jhereg now knew where I was. Yes, I still felt a fair bit of confidence in all those things I'd said: A Dragaeran would stand out, and a Morganti weapon would most certainly stand out. But what I hadn't said was: Give them enough time, and they'll find a way around those problems. They're tenacious, they're brutal, and when they have to be, they're creative. I know, I was one.

Once a fellow I was after surrounded himself with such solid protection that bribing them all would have cost more than I was being paid for the job. So I hired an actor to play a legitimate Chreotha merchant, hired another to play a low-level boss from Candletown, a few others to play flunkies and lackeys, and spent eleven weeks constructing a phony business deal for the guy just to get him to a meeting—no bodyguards permitted, you understand the need for secrecy—at which I turned out to be the only one doing any business. The whole story—why he needed to go, how everything played out—is interesting, and I may tell it someday. It was elaborate, elegant, and, if I may say so (after some initial foul-ups and few scary moments here and there), perfect.

What it wasn't was unique.

My point is this: Give the Jhereg enough time, and they will find a way to nail you. Was I giving them too much time? I didn't think so.

I reviewed what I knew yet again, and finally said, "Okay, let's do this."

"Now?"

"Now. Think you could manage to open my pack and bring me something out of it? It should be in the box, or next to it."

"Maybe, Boss. I can try. As long as you promise not to make any opposable thumb comments if I fail."

"None for a week, Loiosh, either way."

"What do you want?"

"Do you know the little bottle that I keep tincture of lithandrial in?"

"Huh? Sure, Boss. Since I don't think you'll be satisfied giving anyone the nettles, I assume you have the backache. But shouldn't you ask the physicker—"

"Loiosh, at this point I wouldn't even notice the backache if I had it. Just get the thing, if you can."

He could, and presently I was holding it, and I learned that opening a tightly corked bottle is much more difficult than feeding yourself. I eventually got it open.

"Now I need a cloth of some kind."

He didn't ask questions, just dug in the box until he found an old pair of—until he found some cloth. I couldn't be picky at that point. I poured a little dab on the cloth and applied it as best I could, wiping the excess carefully from my mustache.

"Dammit, Loiosh. I wish I had a glass. How does it look?"

"Compared to what?"

"Never mind. It'll have to do. Get rid of this cloth. Put it back in the box and bury it."

"With pleasure."

"And never mind the wisecracks."

I lay back on the bed and spent some time recovering my breath and remembering not to lick my lips. "Can you put the bottle back in the box too?"

"Boss, have you gone nuts?"

" Do not mock the afflicted, Loiosh. Not only am I a wreck, but as you can see, I've just been attacked by a witch."

"You've—"

"See? Red lips? Witch's mark?"

"Uh, who are you trying to convince?"

"Sit back and wait. All will be made clear."

When Meehayi came in with my lunch, I was lying on the bed, either barely breathing, or not breathing at all. If you're curious, you breathe only through your nose, into your chest, quick short breaths; and you can do it forever, though it takes some practice to just breathe into your upper chest. Oh, and my lips, of course, had a pronounced reddish tinge.

Meehayi dropped the bowl of stew (which was, as far as Loiosh and Rocza were concerned, either an unexpected bonus, or the only value the plan had in the first place), gave a high-pitched sort of scream, and bolted out the door.

I relaxed and waited off-stage for the next act in which I would be needed, like the ubiquitous merchant in a mannerist murder comedy. What I liked about this was that, if it didn't work, there was no risk—what had I done? Why, I'd taken a backache remedy and then had a nap; everything else had just been an over-reaction by a superstitious peasant boy.

Unless, by some fluke, Orbahn happened to hear about it too soon, and figured out it was a fake; in that case I was dead meat. But you need to accept some risks. It was much more likely that he'd hear about it later, and either manage to put only part of it together, or else figure out the whole thing and not care. Either way, I was good.

The first to arrive was Aybrahmis, with a look of mixed anxiety and rage on his features. That was odd, I have to admit. I'd expected him to show up; he was, after all, a professional; I hadn't expected him to take it personally.

The first thing he did was hold a looking glass to my lips. Through lidded eyes, I decided I hadn't done a half-bad job. I said, "Physicker?" My voice was weak, pitiful, a man just barely on this side of the Great Night. Heh. I missed my calling. I wonder if Miersen would cast me as First Student.

"Lord Merss!" he said. "I thought you—are you all right?"

"What...happened?" I managed to whisper through my barely moving lips.

"What happened?" he directed back at me.

"I don't..."

"Lord Merss?"

I opened my eyes again. "I was lying here. Then I, I couldn't breathe. That's all I remember."

Fenarian, my grandfather told me, is a language rich in curses that don't translate well. Yes, indeed it is.

I managed, "What...?"

"Witchcraft," he said grimly. "Someone made an attempt on your life."

I shook my head. "Can't. Immune. Natural—"

"It's witchcraft," he said firmly.

If you want to convince someone of something that is related to his field, but still outside it, first, plant the suspicion in his mind, then deny it is a possibility for an unconvincing reason.

"Boss? You know this won't hold up to scrutiny by a witch.”

"I know. That's the beauty of it."

The witch he'd been working with (I never did catch his name) came in around then, and started to examine me, but Aybrahmis started in on him before he had the chance, glaring and hissing whispers as he took him by the arm and spoke to him in a corner. The witch kept shaking his head and making gestures of denial with his arms.

He attempted twice more to examine me, but Aybrahmis wasn't letting him near. Reasonable: It looked like the Coven had just tried to kill me. It appeared that the disagreement might get physical. My money was on the witch, but my concern was that they not fall on top of the sick guy.

I admit I felt a tiny bit sorry for the poor witch; he'd done his best to heal me, after all. But those infusions had tasted terrible, so I didn't feel all that bad.

Besides, I didn't have a lot of room in me for feeling anything at that point—that is anything except the need to get the job done and be away from there.