Steven Brust - Dzur

A Dzurlord with a big grin on his face. Very odd. But I was glad he liked the food.

“So,” I said, picking up the conversation from some time before. “You’re studying wizardry? Good. Maybe you can tell me just what a wizard is, then. I’ve been wondering for some time.”

He grinned like his schoolmaster had just asked him the very ques­tion he had prepared for. “Wizardry,” he said, “is the art of uniting with and controlling disparate forces of nature to produce results unavailable from, or more difficult to obtain with, any single arcane discipline.”

“Ah,” I said. “Well. I see. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, sounding sincere. “What do you do?”

“Hmmm?”

“Well, I’m a wizard. What do you do?”

“Oh.” I thought about it. “I run in terror, mostly.”

He laughed. Evidently, he didn’t believe me. Probably just as well; if he had, he’d have been required to be scornful, and then I’d have been required to kill him, and Sethra might not like that. It did, however, effectively kill the conversation.

I took another bite of garlic, waited for the explosion, then the bread. Perfect. Each bite of garlic was like a new discovery, exciting even in its confusion; each bite of bread the epiphany that completes it. And the combination took me away from all that had happened in the last few years, and into that time when things were simpler. Of course, they were never really simpler, but, looking back on them now, my senses filled with garlic and fresh bread, it seems like things were simpler then.

Stepping off the Chain Bridge was also a step into the past, as it were. It made me think of a time before I had met Cawti, before I had begun working for the Jhereg, when I was just an Easterner, living along Lower Kieron Road, but walking across this bridge, or else along the waterfront to Carpenter, several times a week to visit my grandfather. My grandfather no longer lived here; now he lived in a manor house just outside of the town of Miska, near Lake Szurke. I’d visited him once a couple of years ago; I decided I should probably do so again, if I could get this matter settled without becoming dead.

My memory told me that all of South Adrilankha stinks all of the time. That isn’t really true. You have to reach the Eastern­ers’ quarter to get the smell, and the Easterners’ quarter is a large part of South Adrilankha, but by no means all of it.

I took the roads that were as familiar to my feet as langosh was to my tongue, though nowhere near as pleasant.

It was a little chilly in Adrilankha, but the cloak kept the ocean breeze off me. Loiosh and Rocza shifted on my shoulder; I could feel them looking around.

I tapped the hilt of my rapier, just to reassure myself that it was there. Lady Teldra hung just in front of it.

My boots were a fine, soft darr skin; quite comfortable, and good for walking across grasslands, and even feeling your way carefully along rocky mountain passes; but they didn’t suit the stone streets of Adrilankha. My old boots, however, were gone with my old life.

I made it to Six Corners, which is as much the heart of the Easterners’ district as anywhere, and looked around. I was sur­rounded by humans, by my own kind; I felt the easing of a tension I hadn’t known was there. Even being by yourself isn’t quite the same as having your own people around you.

Now, it’s never been all that clear who my own people are, but I’m telling it to you as it felt at the time.

Six Corners is, as they say, no place to found a dynasty. I’m told that, before the Interregnum, it was an area frequented by the higher class of merchant, but it was destroyed by fire and never rebuilt. As no one wanted it, the Easterners moved in, migrating from, well, from the East. After that, it was built up slowly and haphazardly; no one cared what happened there, or what things looked like. Or, for that matter, who did what to whom. The pa­trols by the Phoenix Guards were cursory during the day, and non-existent at night. Not, I suspect, because they were scared to be there; just because they didn’t much care what happened.

A few walls that had once been painted green, a roof that was sagging in the middle, and a doorway covered by a torn burlap cur­tain led the way into the abode of the finest bootmaker in South Adrilankha, maybe in the Empire. Since this wasn’t Valabar’s, Jakoub stared at me with undisguised astonishment, before say­ing, “Lord Taltos! You’re back!”

I agreed that I was. “How are things, Jakoub?” I knew it was a mistake the instant the words were out of my mouth.

“Well enough, Lord Taltos. We’ve had a bit of rain, you know, and that always means an increase in custom. And Nickolas in­jured his hand, a few weeks ago, and still isn’t able to work, so most of his regulars are coming to me now. Of course, Lady Ciatha has chosen to let half her land lie fallow for the season, so I’m not getting any—”

“Good to hear,” I said, before he could get really warmed up. He took the hint, praise be to Verra. “How are you, my lord?”

“Well enough, thanks.”

He glanced down at my feet. “What are those?”

“Darr skin,” I said. “I’ve been spending a lot of time walking through wilderness.”

“Ah, I see. And, because it’s the wilderness, your arches won’t collapse? Your heel won’t callus? Your instep—”

“Do you still have my measurements?”

He looked hurt. “Of course.”

“Then make me something suitable for travel outdoors or on paved streets.”

He looked thoughtful. “For the soles, I can—”

“I want to wear them, not hear about them.” I tossed him enough silver to make up for the second hurt look.

He cleared his throat. “Now, uh, your special needs ....”

“Not as much as in the past. Just a knife in each, about this size.” I made one appear and showed it to him.

“Can I keep it?”

I set it on the counter.

“Nothing else? Are you certain?”

“Nothing else for the boots, but I also need a new sheath for my rapier. The last one you made for me was, uh, damaged.”

He came around the counter, bent over, and inspected it. “It’s been horribly bent. And the tip’s been cut off. What happened?”

“It got stuck in me.”

He stared at me, I think wanting to ask how that had hap­pened but not daring. I said, “It was an apprentice physicker, and I have no clear memory of just what he did or why, but I guess it worked.”

“Eh ... yes, m’lord. The new sheath—”

“Use the same design.”

“And all of the additions?”

“May as well.”

“Very good, m’lord.” He bowed very low.

“How long will it take?”

“Four days.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Day after tomorrow.”

I nodded. “Good. Now let’s chat.”

“M’lord?”

“Close up the shop, Jakoub. We have to talk.”

He turned just the least bit pale, though I had never, in our long acquaintance, either harmed or threatened him. I guess word gets out. I waited.

He coughed, shuffled past me, and hung a ribbon across the door. Then he led the way into his back room, filled with leather, leather smells, oils, and oil smells.

Jakoub had a full head of black hair, brushed back like a Dra­gaeran trying to show off a noble’s point (which Jakoub didn’t have). I’ve never been able to determine if it’s a hairpiece, or his own hair that he dyes. He was missing a couple of lower teeth, which was made more noticeable by a protruding jaw. His eye-brows were wispy gray, in sharp contrast to his hair, and his ears were small. His fingers were short and always dirty.