Стивен Браст: Tiassa

“Your mother—Aliera, we’re talking about Aliera here—says she isn’t proper company.”

Devera nodded.

“That is, Aliera e’Kieron, the daughter of Adron e’Kieron, the man who blew up the Empire? She is saying that Darkness isn’t proper company?”

Devera nodded again.

“Did she say why?”

She looked down. “I don’t know.”

“Devera.”

She continued looking down.

“Devera, why did your mother say Darkness isn’t proper company?”

“Mama doesn’t like how she eats.”

“Oh. Well. I guess that might be a bad example. How does she eat?”

“She eats worlds.”

“Oh. Well. And she lives in the Vestibule, near the Halls of Judgment?”

“She doesn’t live there. But I can find her there.”

“When she isn’t eating worlds.”

Devera nodded.

“Loiosh, how did I end up in a situation where—”

“Don’t even go there, Boss.”

Devera giggled.

“So,” I said. “All right. I get why you don’t want your mother to find out, or your grandmother, but why not one of the more powerful types?”

“They’d tell on me.”

“And I won’t?”

She shook her head.

“Why won’t I?”

“Because you know how to keep secrets.”

I started to tell her about all the stuff I’d been telling to complete strangers, then remembered how much I’d been leaving out. I said, “Yeah, I guess I do. So, what do you need me to do?”

“I don’t know!” her voice was a little shrill.

“Can you explain how it is you know that I can help, but not what it is I have to do?”

“I need someone to help me. And you’re someone, aren’t you?”

“I’ve often wondered.”

“I need someone to help me find a way out, and…” Her voice sounded quivery and then she stopped, looking down.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll try to help. Do you know—”

She vanished.

“Well, bugger.”

“Surprised?”

“Not really. But we’re adding that vanishing bit to the things we need answers to.”

“I’m sure it’s not important, Boss.”

“Heh. ”

I stood there for a minute, just absorbing the conversation and failing to figure out what it meant. When I’d wasted enough time, I shrugged and set it aside as best I could.

So, now where? Back through the theater and out the other doors, or back down the stairs?

Somewhere in this place was an answer, and I hadn’t yet identified the question.

I went through the dining hall to the theater—or, at any rate, the door that had opened into a theater a few minutes before. I went through it, and, as before, there was that disorientation and I found myself sitting. The consistency was oddly reassuring.

I watched the stage for a few minutes, but Hevlika didn’t appear. I got up and went through the doors in the back.

They opened to a wide corridor, mostly done in pale yellow with white trim, decorated with a couple of mirrors on each side with small tables below them, and a few paintings and psiprints. The carpet was a dark blue, rich and thick. As was becoming my habit, I turned to look at the door behind me. It was still there, and I could still see the back seats of the darkened theater. Well, then.

I walked down the hallway. I could imagine it being full of nobles, all dressed in their Houses’ finest finery—winged boots, sequined tights, high-collared, sweeping gowns—as they waited for the door to open. That’s what this hallway was for; had it ever been used? There was a “snick” as the doors behind me closed. There was a door on the right; I opened it and was nearly shocked to see something that made perfect sense: a long room with hardwood floors, mirrors on both sides, and a rail running all around it. Just the sort of place a dancer would use to practice. I shut the door and continued.

The hallway ended with a large table beneath a larger mirror. I was getting tired of looking at myself. A door stood on either side. This one, or that one? The last several hours had been filled with choices and no rational basis to choose one or the other. I was getting annoyed.

I tried the one on the left, but it was locked. I studied the lock, then got the necessary objects from the pocket inside of my cloak, and a minute or so later had it opened.

Interesting place to put an armory. No, a really nonsensical place to put an armory.

Halberds, mostly. No dust, but also a quick test revealed they weren’t especially sharp. Mostly for show? Yeah, probably. In one corner was a stand with eight broadswords, also dust-free, but they, too, could use some time with a whetstone. A shelf next to them had daggers—six of them decorative, full of cheap gems and gold coating, and another eight that were fully functional, if a bit dull. I picked them up one at a time. Decently made, triangular, good point, solid hilt, leather-wrapped grip. I resisted the urge to steal some, but I wanted to, just because. These weren’t balanced for throwing, but were nicely balanced for off-hand fighting. Not works of art by any means, but examples of good, solid craftsmanship. Gosh, I love daggers. I put them back.

I left the armory, crossed the hall, opened the other door, and was once more looking down the hallway that should have been a floor below me. Rocza did a nervous dance on my shoulder, shuffling to one side and back; I caught Loiosh’s head bobbing around from the corner of my eye; they were becoming a little upset about the place too, either picked up from me or just on their own.

There are any number of folktales about buildings that are alive, and have their own wishes. Sometimes, especially in Dragaeran tales, it wants to kill the hero. In Eastern tales, it often wants to protect him. A lot of what was going on would make more sense if I accepted those stories as true, and figured the place was trying to tell me something, or save me from something, or get me to do something. I eat well, but there are things I have trouble swallowing.

“Loiosh?”

“I’m with you, Boss. I don’t believe in buildings that have their own plans.”

“Good.”

“But then, until we met Sethra, I didn’t believe anyone could be older than the Empire. And until we met a Jenoine, I didn’t—”

“Thanks.”

The door was still open, and still showed the fancy corridor. I shrugged and continued, turned a corner, and heard a cough behind me.

“Ah, there you are, my lord.”

“Hello, Harro. Yes, I was stretching my legs.”

“Yes, my lord. I’m grieved to tell you that we have not managed to open the door.”

“I’m concerned to hear it.”

“It’s getting late. I am instructed to see that you are given dinner and a room for the night.”

“That is very kind. This dinner of which you speak. Where is it to come from?”

“My lord? The cooks prepare the food. In the kitchen. I don’t understand what you ask.”

“Never mind,” I said.

“Permit me to show you to a room where you may refresh yourself.”

“Lead the way,” I said.

As we walked, I said, “Do you know Hevlika?”

From the corner of my eye, I caught a brief tightening of his shoulders.

“The dancer?”

“Unless there’s another.”

He coughed into his fist. “Why, yes, I have the honor of knowing her.”

“Good dancer, isn’t she?”

“Why yes, my lord.”

“How long have you known her?”

“My lord? She was here—that is, part of the household—before I arrived, so as long as I’ve been with Lord Zhayin. At the old castle, of course.”