Steven Brust - Dzur

Okay, I had certainly opened the dam; now I got to see whose fields got flooded. 13. Descani Wine (Continued)

If you follow your waiter’s recommendation, which I almost always do at Valabar’s, the wine that goes with the salad is also the wine that ac-companies the fowl. I don’t actually know the reason for that, though I could speculate that it has to do with transitions.

Transitions are important in a good meal, whether the next flavor has only the most subtle differences from the previous, like between the fish and the goslingroot, where the butter and the lemon defined the fla­vor, or drastic differences, like between the salad and the chicken.

In this case, it was the wine that provided continuity, and reminded my mouth that, however much things changed, and however one moment was completely unlike the one that preceded it, they were both still mo­ments in an endless stream, the product of all that has gone before, and the producer of what will follow; the lingering chill of the wine, now partaking of the fullness of a red, now of the elegance of a white, making us step back a bit from the irresistible now of the chicken, and declaring an eternal context of life, or meal.

Yeah, if you haven’t figured it out yet, food makes me philosophical. Poetic, too. Deal with it.

But there’s a point I want to make: The wine that you drink with the salad is different from the wine that you drink with the fowl. They are the same, but what is happening in your palate is so different that the wine is different too. Like when you greet a particular gentleman with the same words and in the same tone the day before and the day after you’ve agreed to put a shine on him; the context changes the significance of the greeting.

The difference in the food made it different wine; it changed everything.

“This is some good stuff,” said Telnan.

He’s not as poetic as me.

The lack of a course is a course, just like the spaces between the notes are part of the music. Actually, I wouldn’t know about that last part; it’s something Aibynn told me. But I can testify that it’s true of a good meal.

After the fowl, you know what is coming next, because it is the thing that you actually ordered—half a lifetime ago, it seems. Your order has been sitting in the back of the mind for the entire meal. Every sip, every morsel has been a delight in itself, and, at the same time, a preparation for what is next.

And so, of course, Valabar’s makes you wait for it while you drink the wine that went with the fowl.

They clear off the table, leaving you half a bottle of wine and your glasses. Then they come by and give you a whole new setting. I can’t think of any reason for them to do that unless they are deliberately delaying, building the tension. If that is the reason, I can only say it works. New plates, new flatware, new wineglasses. The sound—soft but unmistakable—of each item set on the table was like music. Or, I imagine, what music would be like to those who felt about music the way I feel about food.

“What comes next?” said Telnan.

“What you ordered.”

“Oh.”

He frowned. “I don’t remember what I ordered anymore.”

“Then you get the pleasure of being surprised.”

He nodded. “That works.”

“You pretty much take what comes, don’t you.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Not the way I mean it?”

“Uh. I guess I do?”

“Is that a Dzur trait, or is that just you?”

He blinked. I don’t think he knew how to answer that. He eventu­ally settled for, “Why do you want to know?”

“Good question. I’m not sure.”

“You’re trying to figure out what it means to be a Dzurlord, aren’t you?”

“I guess maybe I am.”

Why?

“Telnan—”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you trying to figure out what it means to be a, well, a me?”

“Sure.”

“Why?”

“Fair is fair.”

“Oh. All right.”

“I wish the food would arrive.”

“Enjoy the anticipation, my friend.”

“My favorite part of anticipation is when it’s done, and the action starts.”

“Ah ha.”

“Hmm?”

“Just made a discovery about Dzur?”

“Oh. You still haven’t told me why you care.”

“Because I don’t believe you guys.”

“Beg pardon?”

“You could say that Dragaerans have been a sort of study of mine all my life.”

“Why?”

“Necessity. Survival?”

“Okay.”

“And I can make sense of most Dragaerans, but not Dzur. You seek out situations that I work as hard as I can to avoid. I can’t make sense of it.”

“Oh.”

“Answer your question?”

“I guess. But—”

“Yeah?”

“I wish the food would get here. I like it when the action starts.”

“All right, Loiosh. Ready for another long walk?”

“We’ll fly, if it’s all the same to you. Where are we going?”

“Back to the City.”

“Oh. Is it time for that errand?”

“Past time, I think.”

“And who’s going? You, or Sandor?”

“Sandor. I don’t think I’d make it.”

“That’s just what I was thinking.”

We took the Stone Bridge across the river, which added sev­eral hours to the walk; but it wasn’t like I had anything else to do. The day was chilly and the breeze stung a little, but I enjoyed walking in my new boots. When I’d left town before, with the Jhereg after me and my life in a shambles, I should have taken the time to get new boots. But now things were different. Now my life was in shambles and the Jhereg was after me.

Yeah.

I did get a few glances from travelers on the Stone Bridge, but I kept my eyes lowered and nothing happened. The Stone Bridge, I’ve been told, is the oldest of the bridges connecting the two parts of the City. It is certainly the narrowest, and, these days, the least used. I don’t know why it was put where it was, unless both parts of the City grew in different directions than anticipated.

Which doesn’t make sense—you’d think that, once the bridge was up, it would determine how the City grew. But that was a long time ago, and just goes on the list of things I don’t understand.

The bridge has always felt solid, though; what more can one ask?

I took a wide detour around the Imperial Palace—or, more precisely, the Jhereg Wing—in part because of what Kiera had said. I am not entirely free of superstition. Loiosh was merciful, and didn’t make any remarks about it.

It was getting on toward evening when I struck Lower Kieron Road and my old neighborhood. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I could feel Loiosh become even more alert. I kept wanting to rest my hand on Lady Teldra’s hilt, but managed to restrain myself.

It was even hard not to stop outside of my old office and stare at it for a while. Again, I resisted. I went straight in; a harmless Easterner who couldn’t threaten a norska, that was me. Or, rather, Sandor.

I think after about two months of being Sandor I’d have to cut my throat.

The proprietor of the herb shop politely asked me if I wished assistance. This was gratifying; evidently working for an East­erner for several years had left its mark. I gave him a big smile.