Steven Brust - Dzur

“No. Thank you,” I said. “Sleep well.”

I followed his directions, and arrived in the room that would be my home for at least the next few days.

There was a small window. Loiosh and Rocza flew in and landed on my shoulders. I looked around the room to see what else was there.

“It has a bed, Boss. That’s something.”

“And a washbasin. That implies there may be water somewhere. An actual door would have been nice, though.”

Rocza shifted uncomfortably on my shoulder.

“Tell her to get used to it, Loiosh.”

“I already did, Boss.”

I looked out the window. The view was of the blank wall of the house next door, about three feet away. It had once been painted red. On the ground below were various bits of wood that seemed to have once been a chair, the remains of an old mattress with signs of having been burned, and various other things I didn’t care to investigate too closely. I’d have drawn the curtain if there had been one.

“I think next time I’ll have to give Aibynn more specific instructions.”

“Next time, Boss?”

“In the meantime, it’ll do.”

“It will?”

“It will. We’re going to be heading out now. You two need to still keep your distance from me while we’re out.”

“Admit it, you’re just ashamed to be seen with us.”

I left the room without touching anything, and spent the day buying a few extra changes of clothing and hiring a couple of boys to give the room a good cleaning. I had a local witch drive out any small animal life that might have taken up residence in the bed. I bought a cheap chair, mostly to give Loiosh and Rocza a perch, and a little end table to set the washbasin on, and a whetstone and honing oil.

As much as anything else, I wanted to practice my new look and new personality. I worked on walking differently, holding my head differently, and above all, trying to look harmless, cheerful, and a bit timid. I had a few conversations with people in the neighborhood, and discovered because I heard myself saying it that I was a clerk for one of the slaughterhouses. I wasn’t exactly sure what a clerk for a slaughterhouse did, but I knew there were such things, and I didn’t expect it to be a profession that would generate a lot of questions. Staying? At the Hunting Horn for now, because there had been a fire in my old rooms. I’d either be moving back there soon, or find a new place. Do you know of any rooms for rent? I require it be clean, you know, and not too far from the slaughterhouse district, because it is amazing how it can eat into one’s income to have to be conveyed to and from work every day, like I am now. Married? No, I have not yet met the right woman. Why, do you know someone? I’ve always felt a man ought to have a family, don’t you think?

And so on. I smiled at everyone, and put on Sandor like a suit of clothes.

I picked up some bread and sausages and a jug of cheap red wine from a street vendor. Hauling the chair and other things through the jug-room didn’t earn me so much as a raised eyebrow from the host (now vaguely awake) or the two Easterners he was speaking with. I put the chair near the doorway and the end table below the window.

I shared the bread and sausages with my familiars when they came in the window and settled on the chair.

“Not bad, Boss.”

“Kind of pales next to mushroom-barley soup, though.”

“You never gave me any of the soup.”

“You wouldn’t have appreciated it.”

“No, I wouldn’t have. Barley isn’t food. Barley is what food eats.”

“Uh huh.”

“Rocza agrees with me.”

“Well, that settles it, then.”

“Good sausage, though. And I like the bread, too.”

“Yes. Very good bread. I wonder if there’s barley in it.”

“You’re just really funny, Boss.”

“Part of my charm.”

I took out the whetstone and oil and put an edge on all my knives, more to be doing something than because they needed it.

“What’s the plan for now, Boss?”

“I’d rather surprise you,” I said.

“Uh, Boss? Are we really safe here?”

“I wish I knew. We’re safer than if I weren’t disguised, didn’t have the Phoenix Stone, and were in the heart of Adrilankha. More impor­tant, though, we have a place to attack from.”

Loiosh flew over to the window, stuck his long, snake-like neck out, then turned around and gave a sort of hop back over to the chair, settling in next to Rocza. Their necks twisted and they looked at each other. I wondered what they were saying. Probably best I didn’t know.

I took a good couple of drinks of the wine. It was different enough from what Valabar’s served that it seemed wrong to use the same term to describe them. But Sandor wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference, so I pretended I couldn’t, either.

I put on my ugly coat and hat and, as Loiosh and Rocza went through the window, I pushed the curtain aside and went out into the evening.

About half a mile away was a red brick house on Stranger’s Road. Sandor headed in that direction as if he had not a care in the world, and certainly no reason to anticipate danger. 5. White Wine From Guinchen

To give credit where it is due, my father did know a great deal about wine; certainly more than I know. He once explained to me that anyone can find good wine—all you have to do is pay a lot of money. The rea­son for learning about wine is so you can find a wine you like without paying a lot of money. The curse of the small businessman, I guess: everything is expressed in terms of making or losing a few coppers.

But still, he’s right.

Mihi knew my taste in wine probably better than I did. Properly (as he once explained) mushroom-barley soup was served with a white wine like a Doe Valley Bresca or a Pymin; the trouble with those is that I don’t care for the hint of sweet apples that goes with a Bresca or of apricots that goes with a Pymin. When I’m eating, any trace of sweet­ness is too much, even when dominated by that pleasant acidity that the real wine experts love so much. So what he brought was a Lescor from Guinchen. To me, the traces of goslingroot and of green pepper, of all things, made it fit perfectly with the soup. That’s me, though. Mihi knew, so he brought it. That’s Mihi.

Telnan just drank it, and I believe never gave it a thought. Well, in fact, there’s no reason he should have; it’s supposed to make the experi­ence more enjoyable, not provide a topic for hours of conversation.

Unless you don’t have anything else to talk about, and Telnan appeared to have a never-ending supply of things to talk about. After discussing where I lived, he proceeded to give me more details than I wanted about living in Dzur Mountain, and what the food was like there (compared to Valabar’s mushroom-barley soup) and the difficulties—primarily boredom—of Lavode training. The subject of food (ever on my mind) brought up the issue of who did the cooking there. I asked him, and he gave me a puzzled look and said it had never occurred to him to wonder.

“How many of you are there?” I asked him.

“Hmm? I don’t understand.”

“Are there other Lavode candidates, or trainees, secreted away in the bowels of Dzur Mountain?”

“Oh. No, just me.” He drank some wine, frowned, and added, ‘As far as I know. She’s only training me because of, well, my weapon. And I don’t think there are that many around.”