"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 didn'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."
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."