Steven Brust - Dzur

“In a mood today, eh Boss?”

“A good mood, Loiosh. For the first time in longer than I care to remember.”

“I’m not sure I believe it. So, what are we going to do first?”

“Kill the Demon Goddess.”

After a moment, he said, “ Boss, any other time, I’d say, ‘ha ha: But—”

“No, you can say ‘ha ha. We aren’t really going to put a shine on the Goddess—”

“Good!”

“—today.”

“Then what are we doing?”

I outlined the plan. He didn’t make any remarks about how stupid it was. Since every time in the past that he’d told me my plans were stupid I had survived, the fact that he liked this one gave me a moment’s pause. I put some things in a bag, slung the bag over my shoulder, and headed out.

For the first order of business, I went out into the morning and had myself a fresh, warm langosh from the cart down the road. I went into the inn across the street from it and drank a cup of mediocre klava. Don’t think I’m complaining about that klava, by the way—I enjoyed it thoroughly. Living without any klava at all was still fresh in my mind.

In any case, the langosh was magnificent.

I left the inn and walked around to the back.

“Loiosh, is—?”

“You’re clear, Boss. No one is watching.”

Sandor went into a neat little package behind a trash con­tainer, and Vlad was back for a few hours. Loiosh and Rocza ap­peared, waited, hovering uncomfortably with much flapping of wings until I had adjusted my cloak, and then landed on my shoulders.

“Good to see you, Boss.”

“It’s good to be back.”

I checked to make sure this and that were accessible and loose enough to get at, then said, “All right. Let’s do it. ” Lady Teldra, her sheath slapping at my leg, almost seemed to agree.

It was a long walk to Falworth Square, most of the way to the Five Mile Bridge. The air was sweet with the ocean and no trace of the slaughterhouses.

“Always best to get killed on a nice day, eh Boss?”

“That’s more like it. I was missing your cynicism?”

At one point, I noticed that I was humming, and stopped.

Loiosh and Rocza took turns flying above me, circling, sometimes landing on my shoulder. I had the feeling that Rocza, too, was glad to be back with me. I was glad to have her back, too. I reached up and scratched under her chin.

“Okay, Loiosh. The action gets going on Falworth Hill.”

“I thought we were going to that place on Harmony.”

“We are. That’s first. But the action doesn’t start until we get to Falworth.”

“Oh. So I can nap through this first part?”

“Actually, you probably can. But just to be safe—”

“Right, Boss. So, what now?”

“Now we get to spend several hours bored out of our skulls.”

“I can hardly wait.”

I was right, too. I found the place easily enough, on Harmony about a quarter of a mile northeast of Six Corners, positioned myself across the street from Number Four, ducked into a shadow, and waited. Loiosh went around to the other door. He waited, too. About three hours and a little more, which is what you get when you start early in the morning.

“Check me on this, Boss: An Easterner, a little taller than you, clean-shaven, short blond hair, gold ring in his left ear, wearing a sort of short sword in a brown leather sheath?”

“That’s our man. Score one for the Irregulars. So he went out the back?”

“Yes, and he’s heading north.”

“On my way. Don’t lose him.”

“That’s not likely.”

I fell in about a hundred and fifty feet behind Josef. The streets curved too much for me to see him, but Loiosh was there. The guy’s first stop was useless to me—he just stood out on the street, talking to someone in a doorway. That was all right; I had plenty of time.

He headed off toward Ristall Market, which was no surprise. About halfway there, he stopped at a blacksmith shop.

“What do you think, Loiosh?”

“He might just need some nails.”

“I mean, does this look like a good place?”

“From the outside, it seems good. Not too much traffic, anyway.”

I had actually already made the assumption that he didn’t need nails. Loiosh and Rocza landed on my shoulder as I entered the place, about two minutes after Josef. As I walked in, I wasn’t holding a weapon, because I can get to one fast enough if needed, and because once, long ago, I walked into a place wielding and stepped straight up to a pair of Phoenix Guards who didn’t think it was funny at all.

It was four walls with no ceiling, and a door in the back that I suppose led to his living quarters; and even with no ceiling, the heat struck me at once. The forge was huge and glowing orange, there were two long tables, one on each side, and they were full of weapons. Excuse me, tools. The blacksmith—at least, I assume he was a blacksmith; he was wearing an apron, anyway—had olive skin, a neat little beard, and bright blue eyes. As the eyes shifted to me, I nodded a greeting and told him, “I need to speak to this fellow; would you mind leaving us alone for a minute?”

Josef turned around. “Just who are you suppos—”

I slapped him hard enough to rock him back on his heels, and by the time he recovered I was holding a knife at his throat—a nice stiletto with about nine inches of skinny blade and a wicked, wicked point. The blacksmith retreated through the door in the back of his shop. A little part of me observed that I was enjoying this more than I should.

“We’ll just be a moment,” I told the door the blacksmith had gone through.

The place smelled like sulfur and charcoal. Josef’s head was tilted back away from the knife and he was glaring at me. I said, “How do you do, Josef? My name is Vlad. I’m just here to give you a little information. And don’t glare at me, I have a knife at your throat. When you have a knife at my throat, then you can glare at me. As I said, I have information for you. Do you want to hear it, or do you want me to find out if I can tickle the top of your skull from the inside?”

“Say it, then,” he said, just barely not spitting.

“You need to find honest work. Or a different kind of dishon­est work. But your scheme for Ristall Market is over as of now. Tell your associates, unless you want me to talk to them.”

“Who—?”

I pushed a bit with the dagger, forcing his head further back and breaking his skin a little. “No,” I said. “You aren’t talk­ing yet. I’m still talking. When I ask you questions, you can talk.”

I cleared my throat.

“As I was saying, you’re done. You don’t need to tell the mer­chants, they’ll figure it out. And you don’t need to tell the Jhereg who set you up in this, I’ll take care of that.”

A flicker behind the eyes? Oh, yes. I’d known anyway, but the confirmation was nice.

“Now, to my question: Who was it? I need a name, and I need to know where he can be found.”

He hesitated. I moved the knife just a little bit away from his throat before hitting him in the stomach with my left hand. Then, when he doubled over, I smacked the side of his face with the hilt of the knife. Loiosh flew down from my shoulder and hovered for a moment in his face before landing on the floor in front of him and hissing.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t quite catch the answer. What did you say his name was?”

He coughed, which wasn’t responsive, but I didn’t hit him again. He spat out some blood and said, “I’m going to—” and I kicked him in the face. He was tougher than I’d expected, but the kick finally did it.