"I don't know. Kill him? Cure him? What's the difference?"
"You remind me of some people I know."
He poured more wine into his mug. "So there was a long time—ten years? twenty? thirty?—when all the Count was doing was fighting witches. There are songs that list the diseases he contracted and was cured of. They probably aren't true either, but I imagine he was pretty busy. Still, things had to be managed, so it ended up with the Merchants' Guild more or less running things."
"Well, and later Counts? Didn't they have anything to say about that?"
"As I understand it, the old Count's son settled things for good and all."
"How did he do that?"
"Made a deal. You don't hurt me, I won't hurt you. Usually the Count is happy to get his silver and sit at home complaining about poachers."
"Strange."
"It's a strange town."
"Yes, you can smell that much."
He nodded. "The peasants don't like the stench from the factory, and they don't like all of their sons leaving the land to work indoors, but the factory is how the Count gets his silver, so the merchants make sure nothing interferes with it. They don't want the Count complaining to Fenario, you see, because there just might someday be a King who actually cares what's going on."
"A strange town," I repeated. "What's the difference between those witches who fought the Count and those who didn't?"
"Eh?"
"I mean, how has that changed?"
"Oh. I've no idea. No one except witches ever talk about it, and I've never studied the Art. Some say that those who were loyal to the Count only have birds and mice as familiars. I don't know if that's true."
"Is any of what you've told me true?"
He considered that. "I'm telling you a story. If you want history, go, ah, elsewhere. I don't know if it's true. We pass these things on, we coachmen."
"So, none of what you're telling me might actually have happened?" "I'm sure some of it is related to what happened, somehow."
I noticed I hadn't had any wine in a while so I drained about half of my mug while I thought things over.
"Then I take it," I said slowly, "that the Merss family is associated with the, ah, the dark forces of the Art."
He nodded.
"Hmmm. And yet, they're still around."
"A few. They're stubborn."
I smiled. That pleased me.
"And," he added, "They mostly keep to themselves, and don't offend anyone."
"Just like me," I said dryly.
He either missed the irony, or chose to ignore it. "So then, Vlad, have I answered all of your questions?"
I laughed. "Sure. And generated a hundred more."
"That's how it usually works."
"The Count, how is he called?"
"My lord will do."
"No, no. His name."
"Oh. Veodric. His family name is Saekeresh."
"Thank you. Tell me, Zollie, what brings you here?"
"I was born here," he said.
"No, I mean, why are you at the inn, instead of at the manor with your Good Count Saekeresh Veodric?"
He laughed. "Good Count Veodric, aside from being a bad-tempered spoiled child who can speak of nothing but his aches and pains, is three and eighty years old," he said. "Once a year he leaves the manor to attend the Planting Festival, and once a year he leaves to judge at the horse show. This isn't either of those days, and the company here is better."
I looked around. "The horses?" He smiled and winked at me. "Oh," I said. "Expecting someone?"
"Sooner or later," he said. "Then I'll leave you with the wine and my thanks." "It has been a pleasure, Merss Vlad. I trust I'll see you again." "I hope so," I told him. "I'll have more questions after I've thought things over." "And more wine, I trust." "And more wine." It had gotten late while we spoke, and there seemed to be little sound coming from
the inn. I made my way back across the small village, Loiosh and Rocza keeping close watch, because I was suddenly nervous. Nevertheless, nothing happened; I made it back and was let in to the Pointy Hat by the host, Inchay, who gave me a sour look (the place was empty; I guess he'd been about to retire).
"Well, that was useful, eh, Boss?" "What are you being sarcastic about now? It was useful." "How? He said everything he told you might be made up!" "True or not, there are many who believe it." "Oh, well, everything's solved then." "He also said there's truth behind it, somewhere." "Good luck finding it." "Oh, shut up. I'm tired."
Some pleasures never get old, and taking off your boots at the end of a long day is one of those. I took off my cloak and outer layer of clothing, remembered to close the shutters, and stretched out on the bed. I was pleased that I hadn't had cause to regret leaving my sword here, and I decided not to do that ever again.
"Well, Boss, I hope it's progress. I'd like to be done and out of here.” "This town makes you nervous, does it?" "What, it doesn't make you nervous?" "Yeah, I guess it does at that. Good night."
4
Lefitt: But the fact is, that is the body of Lord Chartist Magistrate: The Gods! It is impossible! Boraan (to Lefitt): My love, you make the classic error. That is not a fact, that is a conclusion drawn from facts. Lefitt: You mean, it is not Chartis? Boraan: Oh, no. It is certainly Chartis. I was merely objecting to your choice of words.
—Miersen, Six Parts Water Day Two, Act IV, Scene 3
I remember thinking, the night before, how nice it was to sleep in an actual bed. It was still nice.
I slept late, and felt rested when I got up and stumbled down the hall to splash water on my face and so on. I returned to the room, dressed, and took a bit of extra care looking over my weapons as I strapped them on and secured them. Then I went down to eat bread and cheese and drink coffee. A lot of bread and a lot of cheese—I was going to be walking again today. Not so much coffee; foul, nasty, bitter stuff made bearable only by heavy cream and glops of honey.
It was still morning when I set out. I stood outside of the Pointy Hat (I still hadn't heard what the locals called it) and sent Loiosh scouting to find a road south. It took him about five minutes. I followed his directions around a three-story red brick building that I guessed to be some sort of merchants' exchange, and started walking, pacing myself. Loiosh rejoined me, on my right shoulder this time, and had a conversation with Rocza that was none of my business.
The morning was fine and clear; the sky a bright, clear blue dotted with puffy bits of white. That was going to take some time to get used to. It came to me that over the last couple of days I had been half-consciously avoiding looking up. If you've never been in a place where all of a sudden the sky looks entirely different from what you're used to you probably won't understand, but it messes with your head. It makes you think of those stories about people who step through holes in a cave wall and find themselves in Upside Down Land or Walk Backward Land or Everything Too Big Land.
Or Mud Land. I was glad there hadn't been a lot of rain lately; I hate walking through mud.
A wagon, pulled by a young and spry-looking horse—at least, it seemed young and spry to me—passed me going the other way. The peasant gave me a hesitant half nod, which I returned. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat. Lots of the people I'd seen in town had worn hats. The Furnace again, I imagine. Maybe I should get myself a hat. The Furnace was bright on my right side.