Steven Brust - Hawk

There were Teckla and tradesmen and an occasional noble wandering through what had once been my area-stopping to gossip at the Malak Circle Market, laughing and throwing copper pennies at a street jongleur, hurrying to an appointment with a lover or business partner. For just a moment, I felt a bit wistful, then I hurried on.

The cloak didn’t move like my usual one, and it was a bit heavier, and made noise when I moved. I didn’t anticipate needing to be quiet, however, so that was okay.

And people passed me on the street without paying special attention to me.

And Loiosh and Rocza flew overhead, in careful sweeps, looking for anyone paying attention to me, or moving with me.

And all was just as it had been.

And Terion was dead.

I reached down and tapped Lady Teldra’s hilt with my right forefinger; I’m not sure why. I guess it made me feel better.

Nearby was a small shop I’d never been in before, but I knew the type, and I knew it would have what I wanted. I stepped inside, and there was cinnamon, thinleaf, garlic, and several other things all competing for the attention of my nose. I took a moment to enjoy. It was a sort of hybrid shop of a type unknown in South Adrilankha, but not uncommon in the City. It combined the grocer’s trade with the ironmonger’s; or, at least, that portion of the ironmongers that had to do with cooking. It’s the sort of place where I can spend way too much time and money if I’m not careful. This time I was careful. I wished I still had my own kitchen.

“Boss, don’t tell me you’re going to stop in the middle of this and cook something.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, good then.”

“This is for, as the Shereba players say, the endgame.”

I bought an orange and a hollow-blade knife small enough to conceal in my pouch. Then I looked around only briefly, smiled, and made one other purchase.

* * *

There is a tree that grows between the Adrilankha River valley and the desert of Suntra, where it was first brought, I’m told, by Pilmasca the Explorer (who might never have existed) from somewhere in the East I’ve never heard of (and which might also not exist). From the tree grows a bean that has some complex name derived from Serioli, even though everyone is convinced the tree came from the East originally.

This bean can be fermented, roasted, ground (I’m not sure in what order), and, I don’t know, have other things done to it to produce a harsh, bitter hot liquid called chocolate, which can then be sweetened in various ways, or used unsweetened if you’d like.

There are lots of things to do with it, and it is very much a part of many Eastern cultures-even those that are nowhere near where the trees grow. There’s this thing called “trading” that happens, and, apparently, chocolate is one of the things that gets traded a lot.

One thing that happens with it, is that it gets blended with honey and a clear distilled alcohol, and maybe some other flavorings, and left to sit, and it turns into a delightful, sweet concoction. It is just the thing to offer your guests to go with the fruit course, or even to replace it. Those who know how to brew it up-if they’re good at it-can make a pretty reasonable income selling it to Dragaeran food and cooking stores.

* * *

I smiled when I saw the bottle, nodded, and said, “That will do very well.”

“I’m not seeing it, Boss.”

“You don’t need to, Loiosh.”

“But-all right.”

Onward, then.

The last thing I bought was a small flask, suitable for carrying a small quantity of chocolate liqueur with me. That done, I overpaid and bid farewell to the proprietor.

There are various reasons for preferring a delivered message to psychic communication. The three most usual reasons are: that a piece of paper signed by a witness is more official; that you don’t know the other person well enough to communicate psychically; and that if you remove the amulet you’re wearing that prevents psychic communication, the Jhereg will know where you are, and it will thus be easier for them to plunge a Morganti weapon into some appropriate portion of your anatomy. This last reason, I would guess, is less common than the other two.

Dotted throughout Adrilankha are small “offices” (sometimes nothing more than outdoor stands) marked by a yellow stripe. Here you can find a runner who will, for a small fee, deliver a message anywhere in the city. Rumor has it that the original owner had a gambling problem, followed by a not-paying-his-debt problem, followed by a someone-now-owns-half-your-business problem. If true, whoever the Jhereg was has to be pretty wealthy by now, because the business keeps growing, with more and more of these places appearing all the time.

The nearest one was a quarter of a mile away. I went there, composed a message addressed to Lady Saruchka, care of the Ball of Yarn Tavern and Music Hall, and sent it on its way.

Back in the office, I had a quick meal of bread, cheese, sausages, and Loiosh complaining about eating the same thing all the time. I went through the list of what we’d eaten lately, but those were only facts, so they didn’t impress him. I told him we’d have a good meal when this was all over. He pointed out that I’d likely be dead. I suggested that would be fine, and asked if he would be willing to deliver his complaints then. He gave me an evasive answer.

Then he said, “Next we get in touch with Daymar?”

“I think we’re out of excuses.”

I reviewed the list. I had the cloak, the ring, the lockpick, and the wand was coming-almost everything.

My heart gave a thump. It had been doing that a lot lately. I wished it would stop. I mean, stop giving random thumps, not, you know, stop.

I wrote a note and gave it to Loiosh. He sighed and flew off to deliver it to Daymar. I picked up the book on Imperial trade laws just to make sure that I knew the relevant section well enough. I tried reciting it from memory; succeeded. Tried again, succeeded again. I took out the koelsch leaves Auntie gave me, found a bowl, and used the pommel of a dagger to pound them into a powder.

I heard a commotion out in the office, and decided that Daymar was there. Someone stuck his head in and was probably about to tell me so when Daymar brushed past him. In his hand was a tube about four inches in diameter and maybe four feet long. And my heart thumped again , because he had what I wanted, which meant, on the plus side, that I was closer to being ready, and on the minus side, that I was closer to being ready.

He handed me the tube.

* * *

It is said that before the arrival of Men or Dragaerans, so long ago even the hills have forgotten, in secret caverns deep in the mountains, an ancient race called the Serioli constructed artifacts of breathtaking beauty, profound subtlety, and unimaginable power.

All of which is true, but has nothing to do with this. The object called the Wand of Ucerics was made by a Hawklord in Adrilankha about two hundred years ago. The creation of powerful magical tools, generally, is the result of one of three things: the desire to impress a lover; an accident while trying to create something else entirely; or a side project created to assist while working toward something considered more significant by the creator. This was the third.

Ucerics had been taken with the notion that it should be possible to teach a wounded or diseased body to heal itself, something sorcerers had been working on for more than ten millennia. Ucerics’s notion had to do with stimulating the nervous system in combination with the knowledge contained in the body’s cellular structure, and, from hanging out with Aliera, I almost know what some of that means. Ucerics made the wand to visualize cell structures, and, just for convenience, added in an enchantment to help keep him awake while he worked.