Steven Brust - Dzur

The next day I returned to the Imperial library—albeit a bit more worried thanks to Kiera—and spent another day with Deleen. I didn’t expect him to turn up anything new, but I couldn’t think of anything else I should be doing instead.

In fact, he didn’t turn up anything new. As the long day drew near its end, he said, “I’m starting to think we’ve found what there is to find.”

“I imagine you’re right,” I said. “And I’d like to thank you—”

“It’s what I do,” he said. “I’ve enjoyed the challenge.”

“Good. It’s helped.”

“Helped?”

“I mean, you’ve found some information that will be of use to me.”

He frowned. I think it was just entering his head for the first time that I wanted that information for a reason. For a moment he looked at me, as if seeing me for the first time. Then I could almost see him mentally shrug, dismissing the notion as having nothing to do with him or his life.

“Well,” he said, “Good, then.”

“If there is anything I can do for—”

“No, no.”

He nodded and turned away, off to be about whatever business he had. I think he’d forgotten I existed before I left the building. On my way out, I gave one nervous glance at the gray slate Jhereg Wing of the Palace, rising over my head. No one seemed to be looking for me.

Kiera did have a point though. I was glad I wouldn’t be com­ing back this way. Just to be safe, I took the Five Mile Bridge. Most likely it didn’t make me any safer, but it gave me a few extra hours to walk and think.

The streets of Adrilankha, even South Adrilankha, were first dug out, I suppose, from whatever paths people happened to make, so long ago that I can’t conceive of it. They were paved with stone, and then trampled down farther into the ground, and new stories laid on top of the old ones. They tell me that the entire city has sunk several feet since it was first established; the streets sinking farther than the buildings, but both of them dropping. I don’t know if that’s true. I do know that by the time I got back to Six Corners, my feet hurt more than they had from walk­ing hundreds of miles across the continent. It’s funny how, after being cut, stabbed, and beaten by professionals on both sides of the line of justice, one can still be deeply annoyed by a pair of sore feet.

I was certainly grateful for my new boots, though, or it would have been much worse.

Eventually I reached Devon’s House, a public house about a quarter of a mile east of Six Corners. I was early, so I sat in the corner and drank a white wine that was too sweet and not cold enough. My feet appreciated it.

The place began filling up—mostly workers from the slaughter-houses, to judge from the smell that accompanied them. There were a few tradesmen as well. And all Easterners. I felt safe, maybe safer than I should have, in disguise and surrounded by Easterners. I cautioned myself not to let myself feel too safe, especially when I didn’t have Loiosh and Rocza in the room to watch for me.

An hour or so later my man came in. It took him a while to spot me, which gave me a certain amount of pleasure. He was a stocky guy, not unlike Ric, balding, with thin lips and a nose that looked like it had been broken.

“Sandor.”

I nodded. “And you’re Vincent, as I recall.”

He nodded.

“Please,” I said. “Sit down. Wine?”

“Sure.”

I poured, and passed him the glass, along with a pair of gold imperials.

He nodded and said, “I’ll give you what I have.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

He gave me a list of three names, Easterners, who ran small operations and paid off the Left Hand. Nothing surprising, and not exceptionally useful.

Then he said, “You know about the guy they’re looking for, right?”

I frowned. “No. Tell me.”

“The word is to keep an eye out for a guy, an Easterner, who walks around with a pair of jhereg on his shoulders.”

“Is that right?”

“It’s worth a hundred imperials to whoever spots him and gets word back.”

“That’s a lot.”

“You don’t seem interested in the news.”

“No, actually, I am. It’s good to know, and I’m glad you told me about it.”

He nodded. “You seen him?”

“No. How are they spreading this, uh, word?”

“The runners were told. The guy who mentioned it to me said if I spotted him, he’d split it with me.”

“Generous of him.”

Vincent shrugged. “I haven’t seen the guy.”

“All right. Anything else going on?”

“Nothing that would matter.”

“What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “The Ristall Market was closed, but that doesn’t have anything to do with—”

“It was? When? I was just there yesterday.”

“Today. I went by there to pick up something to eat, and it was shut down. The whole market. Carts gone, tarps over the stalls, everything.”

“Why? Did you hear a reason?”

“Just gossip.”

“I love gossip.”

“Well, they say someone threatened to beat anyone who opened up.”

“Someone? And you say it doesn’t have anything to do with what’s going on?”

“This is some local thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are, you know, gangs here, that like to collect from the merchants, and when the merchants don’t pay—”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of the Jhereg operating like that.”

“What, you think the Jhereg wouldn’t muscle in on mer­chants?”

“Not on this scale, no. And they wouldn’t be so clumsy about it. Making a whole market shut down and drawing attention to themselves.”

“You know something about the Jhereg.”

“A little. A few years ago I was a runner myself for a while. That’s how I know so many runners.”

“I see. Yeah, you know almost enough to get in the way of find­ing out anything useful.”

“Eh?”

“But not quite.”

I passed him five more imperials.

“What’s that for?”

“Useful information.”

“Well, okay. I’ll look for more.”

“Don’t look so hard you become some.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Just be careful.”

He nodded, finished his wine, and walked out.

“Hey, Loiosh. I think we’re in business.”

“Is that good? It sounds like it should be good.”

“Yeah, I just got a big piece of the puzzle.”

“Oh?”

“Oh.”

“How big?”

“Big enough that I have an idea of what to do next.”

“Does that mean you’re going to need rescuing in the next hour?”

“Not until tomorrow, I think.”

“Oh, good. I can rest up.”

I had, of course, overstated things to Loiosh—nothing was yet certain. But I was pretty well convinced, and, more important, I knew how to make sure.

My next appointment was a quarter of a mile away, and I was early. The guy was named Claude, and he was big and hulking and bowlegged, with an extraordinarily large head. He was about two sentences into his report when I said, “You know the Ristall Market?”

He stopped in mid-sentence and said, “Sure. Just follow Cut-back Lane to—”

“I know where it is. You know anyone who has a shop there, or a stall, or anything? That is, you know a name, and maybe an address?”

He considered, then said, “Yeah. There’s a guy named Francis, uh, Francis Down-something. He has a fruit stand. I don’t know exactly where he lives, but it’s within a few steps of the market, I know that.”

“Good. Anyone else?”

“Well, I know a couple of them by first name. You know, like, ‘Good morning, Petrov. How is your bread today?’ and like that.”