Steven Brust - Agyar

For some reason, my thoughts jumped instantly to Kellem, although that didn’t make sense. I said, “Did he give you her name?”

She shook her head.

“Didn’t he say anything about her at all?”

“No,” she said. “I asked, but all he said was that she was sickening.”

“Sickening?”

She nodded.

“That was the word he used?”

She nodded again.

I frowned. An odd way to describe someone who-

Oh. I laughed then, because it was funny. Sickening. Yes, indeed.

I left her sleeping peacefully. Then, in spite of my good intentions, I knocked on Susan’s door, but there was no answer, and I heard no one breathing within, so I returned home. I am filled with a sort of nervous energy and wish I knew whither to direct it. I want to find Susan and talk to her; I want to do something about Kellem, I want to pursue these hints I received from Jill. Instead, I sit here and I type.

But, all right, so there is some “sickening” person (that really is a delightful joke) who knows a few things that are better forgotten; that doesn’t mean she’s out there, staying up nights thinking of ways to get me. There are too many stories of men running headlong into their fate in an effort to avoid it. I will disregard her for now, and merely note her existence for later use.

Note: don’t forget sickening woman.

There. It’s noted.

And now, by all the angels of the pit, I’ve had enough of this. I am going back there, and if Susan isn’t in, I will wait; and then I don’t know. I think, in any case, that I can be certain I won’t do anything that

As I look at the bottom of the last page I typed, I cannot for the life of me think how I meant to end that last sentence. But that was yesterday, and a great deal has happened since then. None of it really important, I suppose, but interesting nevertheless. I was typing away gayly, speculating on going to visit Susan, when I heard the sounds of the door being forced. At almost the same time, Jim appeared in front of me.

“Jack,” he said.

“Yes, the door.” I was already rising and looking for a place to hide the sheaf of papers. “Is it the police?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “They didn’t bother knocking.”

“They might think we’re armed and dangerous.”

“They might.”

I decided it would take too long to hide the papers, so I had to be contented with hiding myself and them along with me, which I did by entering the closet of my sanctuary and pulling myself up through the little rectangular door in the ceiling and so up into the attic. I hoped I wouldn’t have to stay there long; it was even colder than the room, there being no insulation to speak of; hadn’t Professor Carpenter ever heard of energy conservation?

There were still those boxes of books, and I found Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain and amused myself with it for a while. After a wait of perhaps twenty minutes, Jim came up to the attic, passing through the trap door and sitting next to me on one of the horizontal struts that were the only floor the attic had.

“I wonder why they never finished this,” I said. “It could be a good, usable area.”

“Never needed it, I guess. The people who built it only had one child, and the people they sold it to only had two. Professor Carpenter never had any.”

“Yeah. So, who are our guests?”

“Well, they surely aren’t the police.”

“Do tell.”

“There’s two of them, both in their thirties, both pretty dirty-looking.”

“They come here to rob the place?”

“No, I think they just want a place to stay.”

I swore; Jim winced.

I said, “What are they doing?”

“Just sitting, talking quietly.”

“What about?”

“The house, the neighborhood, how likely they are to be disturbed.”

“So they know no one lives here?”

“Apparently. One of them said that his little brother had just spent the night here.” Jim’s expression was wry.

I smirked. “I told you we should have-”

“No doubt,” said Jim.

I shrugged. “What do they have with them?”

“They each have a suitcase.”

“Big?”

“Small.”

“Should we try to stay out of their way, or drive them from us?”

“Why ask me?” said Jim. “I’m not risking anything, and, as far as I’m concerned, the more the better. I like the company.”

I scowled at him, then slipped down from the attic, careful not to make any noise. I made my way to the top of the stairs and looked and listened. There was very little light, and what there was glowed an unusual white. I smelled the harsh, familiar odor of a camp lantern, and, after listening carefully, heard the characteristic hiss it gave out. Our visitors weren’t saying much just at this time, but I heard the dull, hollow clank metal gives off when it strikes glass, and the sounds of tools being manipulated. This aroused my curiosity, so I ventured down the stairs a little, and very carefully poked my head out.

There wasn’t much light at all; I could see two men, both rather large. One was bearded, and the other one had a face that reminded me of the French countryside after the Great War. Both were very pale in the white glow of the lantern. They were sitting on the floor, working with something I couldn’t make out. The suitcases were open, however, and I could see the contents, which answered all mysteries.

I had to clench my teeth and cover my mouth to keep from laughing; it took me a minute or two to get it under control. Then I considered whether to consult Jim or to simply resolve the situation. I decided that Jim had left it up to me, so I vaulted over the railing from the landing to the floor, letting my shoes slap the ground. I think the effect was augmented by the black clothing I happened to be wearing, so they probably couldn’t see me very well.

One of them out-and-out screamed, the other gave an inarticulate cry, dropped what he was working on, and reached into the pocket of his jacket. I waited until he had the gun out so he’d feel better, and a few seconds later the other one was also holding a weapon of some sort, both weapons being pointed generally in my direction.

“Good evening,” I said pleasantly. “May I help you gentlemen with something?”

The one with the beard said, “Who the f-are you?”

“I live here,” I said. “And you?”

They looked at each other, and the bearded one stood. I could see that he was holding some sort of very large pistol; perhaps a machine pistol, although I had never seen one up close.

“You don’t live here,” said the beard, flatly. I waited for the other one to say “That’s right, if Lefty says you don’t live here, then you don’t,” but he didn’t say anything. I think he hadn’t gotten over his fright.

I said, “I beg to differ. And I’m afraid I must ask you to leave. You may take your possessions with you.”

I had the impression that they were both terrified, and terrified people are unpredictable. I have found that, ironically, fear often drives people into making the worst possible decision.

“F-,” said the beard, and made the worst possible decision. Yes, it was indeed a machine pistol, and I was not at all happy with what it did to the woodwork. Pock-face fired too, a second later, and, though he didn’t have an automatic weapon, it was a very large bullet, and made a real mess of the wainscoting.

When they had stopped their noise-making, they just stared at me. After a moment, Pock-face said, very softly, “Jesus Christ.”

Jim came down a moment later, and when he saw what had been done to the woodwork, I swear he almost cried. I said, “Do you think someone may have heard the shooting?”