Steven Brust - Dragon

"Melestav," I said, "the Lord Morrolan."

Melestav didn't find anything to say, which amused me. Morrolan looked around. "If I didn't know better," he said, "I should say that this was the office of an advocate."

"What were you expecting? Bottles of poison and shelves of garrotes?"

"I'm not certain," said Morrolan. "Perhaps that is why I wanted to see it."

"Here's where I work," I said, leading the way. Kragar, whom I hadn't noticed, stepped out of our way.

"Excuse me," I said. "Kragar, the Lord Morrolan."

"We've met," said Kragar.

"Forgive me if I don't bow," said Morrolan.

I showed him in, and had him sit in the chair opposite me. "So," I said, "you need more time to pay me back. Well, maybe we can work something out."

"There is a disparity," he said, "between what you do and the surroundings in which you do it. It is interesting." Which was when I suddenly realized that he wanted to be here because he wanted to learn about me—that is, he was learning about a potential ally or possible enemy, in much the same way he would investigate military positions, or I would study someone with whom I had business. It was reasonable, but it made me very uncomfortable.

"I had the same reaction, a few days ago."

He stared at me hard for a moment, then continued looking around my office.

"Ask him if he wants a job, Boss."

"Maybe later, Loiosh."

"Well, thank you, Vlad. I'll be going now."

"I'll show you out," I said, and I did, then returned to my desk, sat down, and said, "So, Kragar, it's like this, you see … "

He waited for me to continue, his eyes narrowed, his head tilted, and his expression one of intense suspicion. At length, when I refused to finish the thought, he said, "What was he doing here?"

"Checking me out. But that isn't what I wanted to talk about."

"Oh?" he said. "It must be my latent Dragon instincts that tell me you've either done something stupid or you're going to ask me to do something unpleasant, or both."

"Both, I think."

He nodded, his expression unchanging.

"I'd like you to run things here while I'm gone. It'll be at least—"

"That's both, all right."

"—a couple of days, maybe a month or more."

He frowned and thought about it. At last he said, "I don't much like the idea. I'm an executive officer type, not a commander. That's how I like it, you know."

"I know."

He considered some more. "Offer me a lot of money."

"I'll give you a lot of money."

"All right."

"Good."

"What will you be doing?"

"Following up on your idea."

"Which one?"

"Sabotage and sundry nuisance for an army."

"I see."

"Morrolan has assigned me to a company."

"I imagine he has."

"Anything I should know about military life before I show up?"

He laughed. "I don't know where to start. For one thing, expect to hate it."

"Oh, I do."

"For another, if you start letting yourself get pushed around—I mean by your messmates, not your superior officers—it'll never stop, or else you'll have to kill someone, which won't be good for anyone."

"Got it."

"And for another, if your messmates even suspect you aren't going to be holding up your end in battle, they'll make your life miserable."

"One question."

"Go ahead."

"What's a messmate?"

"I can see," said Kragar slowly, "that you're going to need a great deal of preparation for this."

If you follow Dockside Road as it meanders generally east and a little south (following the docks, amazingly enough) you'll eventually reach a place where it opens up into a market area, from which Bacon Street springs off down a hill. Assume that the wind is from the north or west because if it is from the south or east you won't make it that far, and you'll soon see a row of short, squat, ugly brick buildings wedged right up against a very low section of the cliffs of Adrilankha. These are the slaughterhouses, and they're positioned so when the meat has been sliced, seasoned, smoked, salted, and packed it can be dumped over the cliff on shipping nets, from which it can then be stowed in the holds of the merchant ships which will try to get it to its destination before too much of it has become too disgusting to be eaten.

Go on past it, and hope the wind fortuitously changes direction right about there (nothing, but nothing, smells as bad as a slaughterhouse on a hot day) and you'll start climbing up again, and somewhere in there Bacon Street becomes Ramshead Lane, and you'll notice that the stench diminishes and changes (garbage doesn't smell quite as bad as a slaughterhouse) but doesn't go away and that the dwellings are mostly wood, and packed tightly together, and unpainted, and you're now in South Adrilankha, and you are welcome to tell me why you bothered to come in the first place. I was there because I had family in the district.

I knew the streets here almost as well as I knew my own area, so I paid little attention as we walked past bakeries and tanners and ironmongers and witches and prostitutes, following the turnings in the road and occasionally nodding at anyone who dared to make eye contact with me, because I don't go out of my way to be intimidating to other Easterners. It is a relief, in any case, to see people who are sometimes bald and sometimes fat and sometimes short and sometimes have whiskers, because Dragaerans can't manage any of these things—what they see as better I see as more limited.

We passed a street minstrel who was singing in one of the more obscure Eastern languages, and I dropped a few orbs into his instrument case.

"Boss, was he singing what I thought he was singing?"

"A young man tells his beloved of his love for her."

" 'My little hairy testicle—' "

"It's a cultural thing, Loiosh. You wouldn't understand."

We came to a street called Strangers Road, and south of it was a neighborhood called Six Corners where everything changed at night; I know of nothing like it anywhere else in Adrilankha, or in any part of the Empire. But here is a fish shop during the day; at night the unsold fish are thrown away and it becomes a place to buy homemade untaxed liquor, especially brandy. Next to it is a bootmaker's, until night, when the boots are locked away beneath the floor and it becomes an untaxed gambling hall. That baker goes home for the day, and another man comes at night, opens the back, unfolds rows of mattresses, and turns the place into one of the most wretched brothels in the City.

I rather preferred the district in the day, though at night it felt more like home.

And then, just after passing out of Six Corners, we eventually reached a small witchcraft supply shop at the corner of two unnamed and unmarked streets, and I walked in under the awning, setting the chimes ringing. I was greeted at once by Ambrus, the cat, who emerged from under the hanging rugs and was followed by my grandfather, who parted them carefully before stepping through. "Hello, Vladimir," he said. "It is good to see you. Sit down and have tea."

Ambrus crouched before me, preparing to spring. I made a basket of my arms, caught him, and carried him past the rugs and into the shop or the house—it was the same place and hard even for me to tell which items were for sale or use by customers and which were strictly personal. For example, you'd think the self-portrait was personal, wouldn't you? Just goes to show you. Loiosh and Ambrus, having established their relationship early on, determinedly ignored one another's existence.

I sat in a grey stuffed chair, set the cat on my lap, and took the small, delicate porcelain teacup from my grandfather. It was painted blue, and the tea was red. I squeezed lemon into it, added a trace of honey, and said, "How are you, Noish-pa?"

"I am as always, Vladimir."