“Not really.”
I sighed. “Okay, mind if I change the subject?”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you know anything about the Left Hand of the Jhereg?”
“I thought you wanted to change the subject.”
“Eh?”
“Never mind; it was a joke.” She considered. “I’ve had a few encounters with the Left Hand over the years.”
“What can you tell me?”
“They’re very secretive, as you probably know.”
“Yes.”
“They do have magic no one else has. I know that the Athyra in particular are always attempting to insinuate someone into their organization, just to discover how some of their spells operate.”
“Attempting?”
“They haven’t had much success, so far.”
“So far is a long time, Sethra.”
“Well, yes. From what I’ve picked up, those in the Jhereg—that is, the Left Hand—rarely even tell each other how to perform some of the more obscure and difficult magics.”
“I think I might have seen one of those.”
“Oh?”
“You know how much I know of sorcery, so I could be wrong, but the one who attacked me, when she appeared, well, it didn’t look like any teleport I’ve seen before.”
“Interesting. What was different about it?”
I described what I’d seen, and what I hadn’t seen, as best I could. Sethra looked thoughtful.
“I don’t know what that could be. I wish I did.”
“If you ask nicely, maybe she’ll teach you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Would you like to sleep here tonight?”
“Please, and thank you. And, yeah, I’m pretty tired. It’s been quite a day.”
She nodded. “Tukko will show you to your room.”
Tukko appeared and led me to a room where once I had awoken after death; he left a candle burning and shut the door. I laid myself down in a very soft bed—the kind that wraps you up like a blanket. Not my favorite sort of bed, but I appreciated the feeling just then.
The only decoration in the room was a painting, which showed a battle between a jhereg and a dzur, in which they both looked pretty banged up. I’d never seen a jhereg like that in real life; it was smaller than the giant ones that hover near Deathgate Falls, but much larger than any of those that scavenge in the jungles and forests and even sometimes in Adrilankha. Maybe the nameless artist had never seen a real one. I couldn’t say about the dzur, I’d never seen one close up. Nor was I in any special hurry to; they were larger than the tiassa, black, wingless, and, by all reports, very fast. And they had claws and teeth and were reputed to fear nothing.
Things that fear nothing scare me.
When I’d studied the painting before, I had been pulling for the jhereg to win. Now I wasn’t sure. Now maybe I was for the dzur.
I blew out the candle, and let a good night’s sleep clear my mind the way a good shamy will clear the tongue. 4. Mushroom-Barley Soup
There were several different soups that could have appeared at this point, of which I passionately enjoyed all except the beet soup. Today was one of my favorites; I smelled the mushroom-barley before Mihi arrived with it. The bowls were wide, white, and there was wonderful steam coming out of them.
Valabar’s mushroom-barley soup is something I can almost build. At least, I can come closer to achieving the right effect than I can with most of their menu.
First, I quarter a whole chicken. Then I throw the carcass into a pot with onion, garlic, celery, salt, pepper, and a bit of saffron. I clean the stock and dust it with powdered saffron. I cook the barley in the same pot (which took me a bit to figure out) , and throw in some chopped garlic and shallots that I’ve sauteed in rendered goose fat until they’re clear, and wood mushrooms, nefetha mushrooms, or long mushrooms, whatever looked good at the market that day. Then I just cook it until it reduces.
That’s almost like Valabar’s. I’ve never quite identified the difference. I mean, I’ve found some of it. I tried sea-salt instead of mined salt, and got closer. Then I used white pepper instead of black pepper, and that helped too. I had to play with the amount of saffron, and I think I finally got it about right. But there’s still something that isn’t quite the same. It might be how they saute the onions: a subtle difference in time there can change a lot.
It was a bit of an annoyance, but not enough to prevent me from enjoying what was in front of me. That first taste just hits you, you know, and as the aroma fills your nose, the broth—just the tiniest bit oily from the goose fat—rolls around on your tongue.
It’s wonderful.
“This is really good,” said Telnan. “How do they make it?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “Glad you like it, though.”
“So, you live around here?”
“I used to. Why?”
“Well, just because it seems like you know this place.”
“Ah. Yes, I’ve eaten here many, many times.”
“Where do you live now?”
“Hmm. An interesting question. I own some land around Lake Szurke, but I don’t live there. I live ... uh, nowhere, really.”
“Nowhere?”
“I’ve been doing some traveling.”
“Oh, I see. I’ve always wanted to do that.”
“Much joy may it bring you.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Where is Lake Szurke?”
“East. Near the Forbidden Forest.”
“I’ve heard of that place. Why is it called the Forbidden Forest?”
“I asked Sethra about that once. She said it used to be owned by a duke who was especially snotty about poachers.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“I guess he was particularly determined about finding and prosecuting them.”
He nodded.
“But then,” I added, “Sethra might have been lying.”
The point of the soup, at this stage, is, I guess, like the final setup. You aren’t in desperate need of food, because you’ve had the platter and the bread. And then you’ve prepared yourself for what is to come with the shamy. Now the soup appears, and as you linger over it, it just starts to dawn on you what sort of experience you have entered into. You are simultaneously anticipating more than ever what is to come next, and are able to await it more patiently. The soup is warm, and it’s, if I may, sensual, and it provides a certain amount of comfort.
And as it vanishes, spoonful by happy spoonful, you discover that you are in the perfect condition for whatever might come next. All is now ready.
Vili brought us a bottle of wine, showed it to me, opened it, and poured us each a glass. We hadn’t made more than a dent in the last bottle, but I learned long ago that it is a mistake to try to finish all the wine. Sometimes, a certain amount of waste is just a necessary part of maximizing one’s pleasure.
While I slept, I had a confusing dream, in which Valabar’s was all mixed up with the Left Hand, and parts of Six Corners appeared in the courtyard of Castle Black. Other than a general feeling that I was in danger, with no specific cause that I noticed, or at least that I remembered after waking, there wasn’t anything to connect the dream to what I was involved with. And if the dream intended to let me know I was in danger, it was a wasted effort; I’d already figured that part out.