Steven Brust - Athyra

“I don’t understand.”

“As I said before, I doubt it’s coincidence.”

“I wish,” said Savn slowly, “Master Wag could have learned what killed him.”

“Your Master has failed?”

Savn considered the Master’s words about not having given up, and he said, “Yes. He doesn’t know.”

“Then I do.”

Savn felt his eyes growing wide. “What?”

“I know what killed him.”

“How could you?”

“Because Master Wag failed. That is all the information I need.”

“But, well, what was it?”

“Sorcery.”

Savn shook his head. “Master Wag said that sorcery leaves traces.”

“Certainly, if used in a simple, straightforward way, such as causing the heart to stop, or inducing a hemorrhage, or in a way that leaves a visible wound.”

“But, then, what happened to him?”

“Do you know what necromancy is?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“Necromancy, in its most basic form, is simply the magic of death—those particular forces that are released when a living thing passes from existence. There are those who study ways to cheat death, ways to extend or simulate life, attempting to erase the difference between life and death. And some study the soul, that which exists after the death of the body, and where it goes, which leads to the study of other worlds, of places that cannot normally be reached and those beings who live there, such as gods and demons, and the forces that operate between worlds, places where life meets unlife, where reality is whim, and Truth dances to the drum of desire, where—”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, sorry. I was rambling. The point is, a skilled necromancer would be able to simply send a soul into limbo, without doing anything that would actually kill the person.”

“And the person would just die?”

“Usually.”

“Usually? What happens the rest of the time?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. It doesn’t matter in this case, anyway. A necromancer could achieve the effect you saw in Reins.”

“What about the horse?”

“What about it?”

“Well, it bolted, as if it were afraid of something.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Animals are often very sensitive to magic. Especially the dumber beasts.” There was something odd in the way he said that, as if he were sharing a joke with himself.

Savn thought all of this over, and said, “But who—T

“Loraan, of course. I mean, Baron Smallcliff. He is a necromancer. Moreover, he is undead himself, which proves that he is a skilled necromancer, if I hadn’t known it before.”

“Undead? You want me to believe His Lordship is a vampire?”

“A vampire? Hmmm. Maybe. Do you know of any cases of mysterious death, blood drained, all that?”

“No. If something like that happened around here, I’d have heard of it.”

“So perhaps he is not a vampire. Although that proves nothing. Sethra is a vampire, but she still eats and drinks, and requires very little blood.”

“Who?”

“An old friend.”

“I think I’ve heard of her,” said Savn. “Although I can’t remember from where.”

“Doubtless just someone with the same name.”

“I suppose. But do you really know a vampire?”

“An odd one. Never mind. Still, I wonder what he is—”

“What other sorts of undead are there?”

“I’m not an expert on the subject. Perhaps dear Lord Smallcliff will let me use his library to look it up.”

“But then you could just ask him.”

“I wasn’t serious,” said Vlad.

“Oh. I can’t believe His Lordship is undead.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because, uh, I just can’t.”

“I understand,” said Vlad. “All your life there are people you just assume you can trust, yet you don’t really know them. Then, out of nowhere, someone walks up to you and asks you to believe that one of them is some kind of monster. I wouldn’t believe it either. At least, not without a lot more proof than you’ve seen.”

Savn stared at him, not certain what to say. He seemed to be talking to himself, and, once more, Savn felt the undercurrent of hatred in the Easterner’s voice.

“That’s how they do it, that’s how they get away with everything, because it’s so much easier just to go along with what you’re told than to look at—” He caught himself, as if aware that he had left his listener far behind.

For a moment he seemed to be thinking about trying to explain; then he shrugged. “Believe it or not, as you will. What I want to know is what the son of—uh, what the fellow has planned. The coincidence, as I said, is too great. He can’t just kill me the way he killed Reins, so—”

“Huh? He wants to kill you?”

“He does indeed. But I’m protected rather better than Reins was.”

“Oh. But why would he want to kill you at all?”

“He has reasons.”

Savn thought about this. “So, what is he going to do?’ he asked.

“I wish,” said Vlad, “that I had some means of figuring that out. There’s probably no point in running once things have gone this far. Besides, I owe him, for Reins.”

“You owe him? You said something about that before. What do you mean?”

Vlad shrugged. “I was mostly talking to myself. But 1 just wish I knew what he was planning.”

“Can’t witchcraft tell you?”

“It’s not very useful for seeing the future.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Maybe.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Try to find out,” said Vlad. “Ihave other ways. Sometimes they even work.”

He stared off into the distance, as if he were communing with things unseen.

I will not marry a poor musician,

I will not marry a poor musician.

He’d be playing and I’d be wishin’

Hi-dee hi-dee ho-la!

Step on out ...

Vlad toyed with his salad but ate little, either because he didn’t like the taste or because he was thinking of other things. Savn ate his own salad with, if no great delight, at least considerable appetite.

Savn felt Vlad watching him, which made him slightly nervous as he squeezed an expensive piece of lemon over the cheese and vegetables, put another handful of salad into his mouth, and wiped his hand on his shirt. The Easterner sighed. “I know a place,” he said, “where one could eat every day for half a year and never taste the same dish twice. Where the servers are discreet and efficient; you never noticed them, but there is always a full plate in front of you and wine in your glass. Where the room is quiet and serene and tasteful, calling the diner’s attention to the delight of the tongue. Where the appetizer is fresh, enticing and excites the senses like the first touches of love. Where the fruit is sweet and plump, or tart and crisp, and complements the cheese as the salad complements the bread—with reverence and solemn joy. Where there is a choice of wine to suit the most diverse taste, yet each has been selected with care, and tenderness. Where each meat is treated with the honor it deserves, and is allowed to unfold its own flavor in the natural juices the gods gave it, with touches of savory, ginger, or tarragon added to direct the attention of the palate to the hidden joys which are unique to that particular cut. Do you know what I am saying? A place where the mushroom and the onion dance with the wine and the peppers in sauces that fire the palate, and the sweet at the end of the meal is the encore to a symphony of the heart. Where—”

“You don’t much like the food here, do you?” said Savn.

“—there is quiet and ease, with only that conversation that flows like the wine from the bottle, easy and natural, and all else, save the sounds of dining, is the silence that food requires for—”