I did get some rest, though the dreams were ugly and woke me up repeatedly, as did the itches and the physicker. Why is it that when you most need rest and healing, those in charge of healing you never let you rest?
Later that day, the Count stopped by to see me. "My lord Merss," he said. "I'm sorry. If there's anything I can do—"
"You're doing it," I said, trying to speak loud enough for him to hear me. "And it isn't done."
His pure white brows came together. "How—?"
"I imagine someone will be sneaking in here to kill me. Probably tonight or tomorrow. No, I shouldn't say that. He'll be trying to kill me; I have no way of knowing if it will involve sneaking in here or some other approach entirely."
He shook his head. "No. I've, ah, spoken to those responsible. They'll make no effort—"
"They aren't the ones who will be coming."
"Then who?"
"I can't tell you."
"Can't tell me?"
"That is, I don't choose to."
He opened his mouth and closed it. "Very well," he said. "Can you tell me how best to guard you?"
Now he was asking the hard questions.
Well, if it were me, how would I do it? I wouldn't bribe a guard; too risky if he said no. Pure stealth would be an option, but how to deal with guards in the actual room, which is an obvious step, not to mention Loiosh and Rocza? If it were me, I'd never have a plan that involved fighting. Fighting is dangerous, even if you have an edge because, say, you're invis—
"Sorcery," I said. "The attack will come using sorcery."
"Witchcraft?"
"No, the, ah, the Art of the elfs. It's different."
He rubbed the back of his hand over his lips. "I've heard of such things. I know nothing about how it works, or how to defend against it."
"Yeah," I said. "I know something about it, but defending against it, when you don't know what form the attack will take, well, that's rough. He can't come at me directly because, ah, he can't. But he could blow up your manor, or make a chunk of roof fall on my head, or, well, I don't know. There are many possibilities."
"Perhaps I should I hide you."
I thought about another ride on a wagon and moaned to myself. "Perhaps you should," I said.
"Aybrahmis says you shouldn't be moved, but—"
"Who?"
"The physicker."
"Oh."
"But if it's between that, and permitting you to be, to be taken from under my roof—"
"What about you?"
"Me? Once I have you safe, I shall retire to the City. I shall be having the servants pack what I need directly when we finish our talk."
"What a coward, Boss!"
"I knew there was something I admired about him."
"I'll never get tired of handing you set-ups."
"Someday I may ignore one, just to watch you twitch."
He sort of hissed a disbelieving laugh into my head.
"I don't suppose you know of a convenient cave?"
"Cave? No, I know of no caves. Why?"
"I don't know, hiding in caves is supposed to be traditional."
He looked dubious. I hadn't been serious anyway.
The trouble was, the assassin could do anything, especially if he were a sorcerer. Well, okay, he couldn't do anything to me directly; the gold Phoenix Stone prevented that. But he didn't need to, either. He could blow up the entire manor. Sure, assassins don't like to do things that will call attention to ourselves—that is, themselves—but out here in the East, who cared? And I had no idea how skilled he was. When you're after someone, you know who he is—as I told Loiosh, you know everything there is to know about him before you make a move. When someone is coming after you, you don't know anything.
Well, no, there was one thing we knew: that there was an assassin after me. And there was another thing that we could find out, if we went about it right.
"What do you think, Loiosh?"
"He might have bolted."
"Yeah, I know. But if he hasn't?"
"I can't think of anything better, Boss. But we'd best do it fast. It would be embarrassing if the Jhereg put a shine on you right before we were about to go into action."
"You're sounding like me."
"Easterners are short. Jhereg are reptiles. Water is wet. I sound like you."
I let him have that one and turned my attention—what there was of it—back to His Lordship. "Okay, here's what we're going to do."
"Eh?" He put his ear next to my mouth so I wouldn't have to shout.
"Get Dahni," I told him.
He looked like he was about to ask why but thought better of it, and just nodded. He went out to give the orders, and Aybrahmis came back in and fiddled with my left hand while I studied a painting on the wall to my right. It showed a waterfall. I like waterfalls. This one had a sort of dreamy quality, which is neither here nor there, but it did have the sense of motion, which is what a painting of a waterfall ought to have. There were also some effects where the droplets of water blended into the mist; a sort of fool-the-eye kind of effect that I liked. In my next life, I'll be an art critic. I wondered which House an art critic was likely to be found in. I hadn't read enough of them to know.
Unlikely to be any of the six (or five, or seven) Houses of the true aristocracy, unless perhaps an errant Tiassa wanted to go that way for a little while if he felt he could inspire better work; but eventually he'd get tired of it and want to do the painting himself.
An Issola might, if he could find a way to be critical without ever wounding the artist's feelings; and if anyone could do that, an Issola could, but, really I didn't think so. I had trouble imagining a Teckla getting the education and drive necessary to understand art and how to write out his thoughts and feelings well enough. An Orca wouldn't do it because there wasn't enough money in it. At least, I'd never heard of anyone becoming wealthy on the proceeds from writing art columns for the local rags. Jhereg? Please. It is to laugh. Vallista? Yeah, I could see that. Maybe a Vallista. When he isn't making something, perhaps he'd enjoy ripping apart the efforts of those who are. Those things sort of go together. Or maybe a Jhegaala at a certain stage in his life, when he's tired of one thing but hasn't yet gone on to the next. I'd known a few; young Jhegaala flock to games of chance. Older ones generally avoid them, but pay up promptly if they play. They're unpredictable bastards, though; just when you think you have a guy figured as a dull, boring clerk in a leather-goods store, he'll suddenly turn into an art critic on you. Hard to pin a Jhegaala down; you never know what one will be up to next. And that could trap you—thinking you understood a guy, only to find out you only understood what he used to be like. That's the thing about them, though: they're always moving. A moving target, like moving water: You can't pick it up, can't keep hold of it if you have it. You try, and find your hand doesn't work anymore. Because your hand is going from one thing to another, all the time, changing, moving, shifting. Everything shifts like that. As soon as you've figured out what something is, it becomes something different. Try to slap a label on it and you've just confused yourself. There's more to understanding than finding the right label, just like there's more to torture than causing pain. You have to keep the guy in the here-and-now; let his mind drift, and he's beat you, because whatever you're doing to his body, it's his mind you want. Just like trying to fix a label on someone, you have to stay on top of it as it changes. You have to ride it, keep with it, turn when it turns, let it carry you, let it change you. It's no fun, but what else can you do?
"Your legs are splinted, and I've treated the burns as best I can and, ah, made certain you didn't move in such a way as to hurt yourself further. There's nothing more I can do for you right now, Lord Merss."
I nodded, still studying the waterfall, and tried not to shake. I heard his footsteps receding, and relaxed a little. Then I very softly, under my breath, got caught up on all the cursing I might have missed in the last quarter century or so.
A servant I di
dn't recognize came in with more soup. Have I mentioned that they had to hold the spoon up to my lips? After they were done feeding me, I shook for a while, which probably took more energy than I'd gotten from the soup. It didn't taste very good either. Barley, I think, with not enough garlic and too much brownroot powder.
I guess I slept for a while after that, until His Lordship returned, with Dahni in tow. Dahni looked like he wanted to look confident and poised.
I managed to lift my right arm enough to beckon him. He tried to look jaunty as he walked. The Count gestured to the two men-at-arms—one of whom I think I recognized—to leave. I said, "No, my lord."
"Eh?"
"You'll want them here."
PART FIVE
LEVIDOPT
The female lays the eggs, the male protects them; yet, like the jhereg (and hence the common etymology of the names, see Appendix B, this volume), both sexes develop venom, as well as wings. No suitable explanation for this peculiarity has been postulated....
The most important and most often overlooked aspect of the levidopt is that, in a sense recapitulating the entire development of the Jhegaala, it, too, is in a constant state of change.
—Oscaani: Fauna of the Middle South: A Brief Survey, Volume 6, Chapter 19
13
Lefitt: Can't anyone tell me anything?
[Enter Tadmar] Tadmar: I can.
Lefitt : Thank all the gods! Well then, please do!
Tadmar: There's a merchant at the door.
Lefitt (aside): I asked for that, didn't I?
—Miersen, Six Parts Water Day One, Act IV, Scene 3
The guards hesitated—I guess my voice was a little stronger— and looked at the Count. He frowned. Dahni tried not to look uncomfortable.
"Where is he?" I said.
"And of whom might you be speaking?" Dahni asked.
I shook my head wearily. "I'm too tired for this, and there's no time. Unless you want His Lordship hunting you down wherever you go—and me, if I happen to live through it—just answer the bloody question. The Jhereg. The elf. The assassin. The Dragaeran. The man you've been paid to deliver me to. Where is he? Oh, and don't try to pretend to be carefree and calm unless you can pull it off, it just leaves you looking ridiculous."
He looked at His Lordship, who, to his credit, had picked up my play immediately and put on a stone face.
Dahni sighed. "Yes, well. If I tell you, do I get out of this alive?" He was looking at His Lordship.
"As far as I'm concerned," he said. "I can't speak for him."
I said, "Not much I could do to you if I wanted to right now."
He glanced significantly at Loiosh and Rocza.
"Oh," I said. "Yeah, we'll leave you alone."
"We're not really letting him go, Boss, are we?"
"I haven't decided yet"
He nodded. "About two miles northeast of town by the Lumber Camp Trail there is a row of old shacks. Right behind the third one is a trail that leads over a hill. At the bottom of the hill is a sort of office area the camp leader used to use. He's in there."
"I know it," said the Count.
Dahni nodded, and looked like he was about to leave.
"Not quite yet," I said. "Did he give you a name?"
"Mahket." He stumbled a little saying the name, I guess because the stress was on the last syllable, and Fenarian never does that.
I laughed a little. "Mahket" means "peace-lover." He had a sense of humor, did this assassin. And no more desire to give his real name than I would have had. "When did he first make contact with you?"
"It would have been, ah, two weeks ago."
I made the adjustment from the Eastern "week" to the Dragaeran, and nodded. "How did he find you?"
"I don't know. It was after His Lordship gave me the assignment to follow you. Perhaps a servant?"
"Probably. Finding the local lord and pumping one of his servants for information would have been a natural first step."
The Count said, "I will discover who it was."
"If you wish," I said. "I don't think it matters much. If you paid your servants enough so they weren't susceptible to bribes, they'd no longer be servants." I turned back to Dahni. "When does he expect to hear from you again?"
"Today, an hour before dusk."
"And?"
He winced.
"Relax," I said. "You've been given your life, and it's much too late for any of us to start liking you. Now let's hear it."
He nodded. "I'm to deliver a layout of the manor, precisely where you are within it, the position of the guards, and how closely you are guarded."
"And then?"
"When he returns, I am to be paid. If he really plans to pay me, of course, and not to either just leave, or kill me."
"Don't worry," I said. "He'll carry out his bargain. Or, well, he would."
"You know him?"
"I know his kind. I presume you were paid something up front?"
He nodded.
"Then not only do you get to live, but, ah, one moment."
"Loiosh, how much gold am I carrying with me?"
"I don't know, Boss. A lot. Five pounds or so?"
I said, "You can also pick up ten gold coins of the Empire. Pure gold. Interested?"
"Ten coins," he said. "Each coin is, ah, what?"
"An ounce," I said. "A seventeenth of an Imperial pound."
"That's what you call an ounce?"
"Yes."
"That's strange."
"It's an Imperial measure. What do you call an ounce?"
"A sixteenth of a standard pound."
"And that isn't strange?"
"Good point."
"Well?"
"What do I have to do?"
"Dissemble."
"I think I see where this is going."
"I suspect you do. Well?"
He thought it over, but I knew which way it would go—I could see the greed dancing in his eyes. I knew that look well; I'd made my living on it, directly or indirectly, for many years.
"All right," he said.
"Good. Give him the information, just as agreed. Only leave out this conversation, and anything else that might give him the idea he's expected. As far as he's concerned, everything's fine. Understand?"
He nodded.
"Tell him things get quiet here about four hours after sunset."
He nodded again.
"Do you think you can pull it off?"
"Dissembling? What do you think?"
"Good point. Look at me, Dahni."
"I am looking at you."
"No, look at what's been done to me." My voice sounded hoarse to my ears.
He swallowed and nodded.
"Keep it in mind, Dahni. Because I don't trust you. And if you turn on me, I'm going to have you delivered to me, and this is what I'm going to do to you."
I looked at His Lordship, who looked back at me, hesitated, then nodded once.
"I understand," said Dahni.
"Good. Go keep your appointment. You'll be paid when— when matters have been attended to."
"Aren't you going to ask how much I was to be paid for delivering you?"
"I never indulge in morbid curiosity," I lied.
After he'd gone, and before I could make the suggestion, His Lordship turned to one of the guards and said, "Do we have anyone who can follow him without making it obvious?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Then do so."
He dismissed the other guard as well, and we were alone.
"Well?" he said. "Now what?"
Now I wanted to sleep.
"Send a troop. Good men, who can move in close before doing anything. Don't give him time to get a spell off, assuming he can—"
"Just kill him? With no warning, no capture, no trial, on your say-so alone?"
"Yes," I said, and waited.
I figured I didn't need to draw it out for him, and I didn't; he finally nodded. "All right."
"Find a witch and tell him you
need Nesiffa powder. A lot of it. A sackful."
"What is it?"
"It's the base of an infusion for curing migraines, but that isn't what you want it for. It's a powder, but each grain will stick to skin or cloth. You have everyone in the attack group carry some in his left hand, and throw it at the guy first thing."
"Because?"
"He won't teleport; that takes too long; When he realizes he's being attacked—which ought to be no more than a second before the attack starts or we're out of luck—the first thing he's likely to try is to disappear, if he can. And he probably can; it's a simple enough spell. Covered with that stuff, your men can still see him. It's an old trick, but a good one."
"All right. What was it called?"
"Nesiffa powder. Find good people, who can stay quiet. I mean, dead quiet. Hide outside of the cabin and wait for him to come out, and then just take him. No warning or you'll lose him."
He nodded. He didn't like it. Me, the only part I didn't like was the chance for a screw-up.
"You'll find a money belt in the box they brought in with me. Take—"
"No," he said. "I'll see that he's paid."
"All right," I said.
Once His Lordship was clear on everything, he wished me well and let himself out. The witches came in right away and changed my poultices and made me drink more disgusting messes; then the physicker's assistant, whom I hadn't seen before, came in and muttered various well-meant meaningless sounds and changed my dressings, after which I was finally left alone.
I was exhausted.
"If this works, we'll be—"
"In the same situation we're in now, Boss. The Jhereg knows where you are."
"We'll have bought some time."
"A day? Two days? A week?"
"They'll still have the same problem, Loiosh. I'll have to be moved back into town is all" I tried not to think of another ride in the back of a wagon. "One thing at a time, right, chum?"
"Right, Boss," He didn't seem happy.
As far as I could tell, Rocza was fine. I asked Loiosh and he agreed. "I think she was just trying to get my sympathy, Boss"
Sometimes, it's best for Loiosh that Rocza can't hear what he's telling me.
The next thing I did was sleep.
I think I slept three or four hours, which was the longest uninterrupted sleep I could remember in a long time. The witches had returned, and they consulted each other in low voices while mixing things at the opposite end of the room so I couldn't see. I guess they didn't value my opinions. They came back and made me drink things, and put wet things on me. I had to admit, the wet things felt pretty good. Then I guess I slept some more.