I held up two fingers to Vili, who nodded and went back about his business. Telnan sat. I don’t know how he managed with that thing slung behind his back that way, but it seemed easy and natural. Maybe that’s something Dzurlords study. He said, “Sethra was worried about you.”
“That’s a kind thought on her part, but are you trained to handle Jhereg assassins, assuming one shows up?”
He smiled like he’d just been ordered into battle against overwhelming odds with half the Empire watching. “Not yet.”
“Oh. So this is training for you?”
He nodded.
“I don’t know about you, Boss, but I feel worlds better.”
“Uh huh.”
Mihi brought klava for Telnan. I drank some more of mine. “Have you known Sethra long?” I asked Telnan.
“No, not really. Around twenty years.”
Not long. More than half of the time I’d been alive. “Odd I’ve never met you before.”
“It was only a year and a half ago that I was permitted above the dungeons.”
I blinked. “Uh, if you don’t mind my asking—”
“Yes?”
“What did you do in the dungeons for most of twenty years?”
He frowned. “Why, I studied wizardry of course. What else?”
I nodded. “Yes,” I said. “Of course. What else?”
He nodded agreeably.
“You know, Boss, I don’t think this one is the brightest candle in the sconce.
“That looks like a sort of uniform you’re wearing.”
He lit up like the skies on Ascension Day. “Oh, you noticed?”
“I picked right up on it,” I said. From his reaction, I knew I was supposed to ask, and the klava had temporarily removed my normal contrary streak. “What sort of uniform is it?”
“The Lavodes.”
Well, that was interesting.
Presently Mihi, a pleasant, chubby Easterner with great, gray bushy eyebrows, approached again. This time holding a large, wooden platter that I knew well. He gave me a sort of conspiratorial smile, as if he knew what I was thinking. I imagine he did. The platter contained a block of granite, smooth, about a foot round, and heated in a bread oven. Mihi set the platter on the table, and took a small stoneware pitcher from his apron. He gave it a quick, practiced shake, then removed the cork from the pitcher.
The bottle had oil—a mixture of grape-seed, olive, and peanut oil to be precise. The aroma it gave off as it spread over the heated granite was mild, slightly musky. I sat back in my chair. It had been so long. The last time I was at Valabar’s, I was—
I was still married, but let’s not go there.
I wasn’t yet on the Organization’s hit-list, but let’s not go there either.
I still had all ten fingers, but let’s &c.
Years. Leave it at that.
Telnan gave the platter a curious glance, as if wondering what was to come. Around it were leafs of lettuce—red, green, and yellow. Between the lettuce and the granite were thin strips of raw beef, smoked longfish, raw longfish, poultry, lobster, and a small pair of tongs for each of us. All of these except the tongs had been marinated. Hey, they marinate the tongs too, for all I know. I’d give a lot to know what’s in the marinade, but it certainly contains lemon.
Also on the platter were three dipping sauces: hot mustard, sweet lemon sauce, and garlic-horseradish-crushed-mustard-seed sauce. I don’t generally use the sweet lemon sauce; something about that combination of flavors bothers me. The other two I alternate between.
You take beef, or the fish, or whatever, and move it to the middle of the granite, where it cooks in about ten seconds on a side—the waiter will do that for you, if you wish. Then you take it with the tongs, dip it in the sauce of your choice, and go to work. With the beef, I wrap it in a piece of lettuce. I started to show Telnan how to do it, but Mihi was faster and better. Telnan paid close attention to Mihi’s instructions.
“You know,” said the Dzur, “this is really good.”
“You know,” I said, “I believe you’re right.”
“Don’t forget to save some for the Planning Committee, Boss!”
“Do I ever forget?”
“About half the time when you eat here.”
“You have a long memory for wrongs.”
“Just looking out for the lady, you know.”
“Think Rocza will appreciate the food?”
“I’ll let you know.”
Telnan was frowning at me. “Are you talking to the, uh, to the jhereg?”
“Yes,” I told him.
“Oh.”
He had no more to say about it, but I enjoyed giving him something to think about.
When we were just finishing up the peasant’s platter, I got two things: The first was a basket of what in my family we called “langosh,” which is an Eastern garlic bread. The second was another visitor.
I really liked the bread; I’ll get to the visitor in a moment.
As I reached for a garlic clove, a little tingle went up my left arm—the lingering effects of a recent injury, even more recently healed by an expert. That was fine; five hours earlier I hadn’t been able to use the arm at all; I’ll take a little tingle.
Telnan and I didn’t talk for a bit. I was concentrating on the process of rubbing garlic on bread when Loiosh tightened his talons on my right shoulder, followed almost immediately by Rocza tightening her claws on my left. I looked up, which gesture alerted Telnan, who turned his head and half turned his body, while reaching for his sword. An elderly, plainly dressed Dragaeran was walking up to the table, with no hint of effort at concealment or speed. If he had hostile intentions toward me, he wasn’t very good; I had time to drop the bread, wipe my fingers, and take a dagger from my boot. I kept the dagger under the table. Telnan must have reached a similar conclusion because he didn’t draw. I studied the fellow as he approached.
He was a bit small for a Dragaeran, and, though I’m not all that good at their ages, I’d have put him at over twenty-five hundred years. I couldn’t identify a House either from his clothing, or from his features.
He showed none of the signs of being a Jhereg—by which I mean that I got no sense that he knew how to handle himself, or was looking around for danger, or that, well, he was anything except an elderly merchant. Naturally, I assumed he was there to kill me.
It took him something like six seconds to get to my table, which gave me time to remember Lady Teldra, so I pushed myself just a bit back from the table, re-sheathed the dagger in my boot, brought my hand back up, and let my right forefinger rest against the hilt of Lady Teldra on my left hip. Lady Teldra is—but we’ll go into that later. For now, let me say that, as before, touching her hilt gave me a comforting sense of her presence. The thought came to me that if this individual was going to disrupt my meal, I would be more than a little annoyed.
Vili frowned and started to approach but I waved him off—I’d hate myself forever if Vili got himself shined trying to valiantly defend my right to a quiet dinner.
It’s funny how time seems to stretch out when you think you’re about to have to defend your life. As he came closer, I was able to make a few more snap observations about him—he had a pleasant, slightly round, almost peasant-like face in spite of the noble’s point, with bright, friendly eyes and thin eyebrows. His hands were the only thing that struck me as dangerous, though I can’t say exactly why I thought so; they were just hands: neatly trimmed nails, fingers about average, though perhaps a bit stubby. I stood; Telnan did as well. If it was rude, I didn’t especially care.
The visitor didn’t keep me in suspense. In a pleasant baritone, he said, “My name is Mario Greymist. May I join you, Lord Taltos?”
When I could talk again, I said, “So, correct me if I’m wrong: You’re not a myth, then?”