I dressed and went downstairs for coffee. The host's wife was behind the bar, and she gave me a look that indicated she wouldn't have been there if her husband hadn't been woken up in the middle of the night to let me into the inn. But she didn't say anything, so I kept my thoughts on the subject to myself and just drank my coffee: bitter on the tongue, but it works just as well as good klava when it hits the belly. That's the difference, I guess: klava is a pleasure, coffee is merely physic.
Pretty effective physic, though. As it started working, my attitude got a little better-or, rather, less bad-and when I got some toasted bread and cheese from her I tipped her well. This cheese, unlike what I'd had last night, turned out to be sharp and musky and neither crumbly nor salty, which I could have considered a reward from the gods for my generosity. I fed some to Loiosh and Rocza, who seemed to agree with my preference.
"Got a plan for today, Boss?"
"Part of one. I'm going to sit here and find out if our friend from last night kept her mouth shut."
"What if she didn't?"
"Then I will engage in acts of violence and mayhem."
"Oh, good. I've been missing those."
A little later the host came down and walked up to me. For a minute, I thought I was going to be evicted, and wondered how I'd respond, but he put a folded and sealed paper in front of me, saying, "This arrived for you from His Lordship," and stalked off with no other remarks.
I opened it. In four times as many words as it should have taken, it told the "Daylord" (whatever that might mean) to see that I was given full access to the mill and treated with all courtesy due to an honored friend of &c &c and to the boat crew to provide, to and from, transportation such as was available and befitting &c &c.
"Well, there it is, Boss. We going to visit it today?"
"Maybe. Not right away," I folded up the paper and put it away for later consideration.
I drank enough coffee to convince myself that no group of enraged citizens or dour law-enforcement officials were going to charge into the inn with the intention of pulling me out to face justice for my criminal actions of the night before. I think I was relieved.
"Okay," I said. "That's enough. Let's take a walk."
"Anywhere in particular?"
"I'll tell you when we get there."
"That means no, which means we're going to the dock."
"Shut up.”
I headed for the dock, and stood looking out at the mill, churning away, smoke rising and dissipating and meandering off to the northeast. The smell wasn't quite as bad today. I wondered if there were people living to the northeast, and how they were liking the breeze about now.
"What is, Boss?"
"Hmm?"
"You muttered 'trap.' "
"Oh, did I?"
The mill across the river was squat and long and built of stone, and I didn't see one single Verra-be-damned window in the place.
"Yeah, well, I don't know if it is, but it looks like one."
"I see what you mean. Let's not go there."
"Not until we know more, anyway."
It was well before noon, and the Furnace cast long shadows of the houses to my left. My grandfather had once mentioned something called "Shadowreading," which involved somehow seeing portents and omens in the shape of shadows of various objects at certain times. I never learned much about it, because he thought it was nonsense.
I wondered what he'd tell me about this. He approved of the idea of me finding out something about my mother; I know because he said so, and because he gave me that note. But I'd dearly love to hear his thoughts on "light" and "dark" forms of the Art, and all of the strange politics of this place.
He'd tell me not to be distracted by the shadows, but to concentrate on the target. And I'd tell him that all I could see were the shadows. And he'd point out that shadows need a light source, and a real object to define the shape.
Well, okay, Noish-pa. I'll describe the shadows, and you tell me what object has a shape like that, eh? We have a Count who owns a paper mill. We have a family killed because I was asking questions about them. We have a coachman killed because he answered the questions. We have Dahni, who carries on conversations in the dark and wants to recruit me to his side, but won't say which side is his, or even what the sides are. We have Orbahn, in the bright blue vest, who gives me vague hints and warnings and then vanishes. We have a Merchants' Guild that runs the entire town and the rest of the county too, for all I know, and may or may not be tied into bizarre customs of witchcraft, one of which forbids the summoning of demons, which, in turn, is impossible to begin with. Which parts are shadow, and what is casting them, Noish-pa?
I paced, and stared at the mill across the river, and listened to water lap against the dock. As I stood there, the Furnace rose, and the shadows became shorter. It was becoming warm, and I thought about going back to the inn and getting a lighter cloak, but transferring even those few surprises I still carried with me seemed like too much work. I really wanted someone to attack me, so I could hit something and watch it bleed. The sight of the Merss farm, burned and smoking, fixed itself in my mind's eye, superimposed over the river and the smoking mill.
A sort of boat—long and ungainly—set out from the mill and began to work its way downriver, mostly drifting with the current. There were two or three figures on it; though what they were doing I couldn't say. I watched it until it was out of sight, then turned my back on the river.
A few women, some with babes, went into shops along the street; a few children played here and there. Everything looked innocent. Whatever was going on, it was well concealed.
Damn this town. Damn this country.
All right, then.
I could allow myself a certain amount of moaning and complaining and wishing the world were something other than it is, but enough is enough. Besides, I had to tell myself to stop feeling sorry for myself before Loiosh got around to it.
Sometimes if you can find a thread, you can take it and start following it to see where it leads. When I thought about it, I realized that the trouble wasn't lack of threads, but rather too many. So: Pick one, grab hold, see where it goes, and hope someone tries to stop me because that will give me someone to take my frustrations out on.
Dahni.
He'd come out of nowhere, in the middle of the night, talking in all sorts of vague circumlocutions. He wanted me to do something but wouldn't say what it was: therefore, he knew something, and I needed to know it.
"Loiosh."
"Dahni's house, Boss? Keep a watch on it?"
"Yep.”
"On my way."
I could have gone back to the inn and waited there, but I was getting tired of the bloody place; and besides, I had the feeling that the host and I were reaching the point where something would happen, and unless he turned out to be a key player in all of this (after all, anyone might be), that would just be a waste of perfectly good violence. So I went over to the west side of a warehouse a few steps from where I'd been watching the mill, squatted down in its shade, and waited.
After about half an hour, Loiosh said, "Either he isn't here, or he's asleep. I haven't heard a sound"
"All right. Stay with it.”