Mist said, “Keep still, Birch.”
I said, “Say, are those real spears?”
Morrolan said, “Shut up, Vlad.”
Loiosh seemed about to have hysterics. Some of the cat-centaurs appeared to be in the same situation. Me, too. Morrolan and Mist caught each other’s eyes and shook their heads sadly.
Mist said, “If you wait here, we’re following a very large wild kethna. When we bring it down, we’ll share it with you.”
“We shall get a fire going,” said Morrolan. Then, “Um, you do cook your meat, do you not?”
Brandy said, “No, we prefer to let the raw, fresh blood of our kill drip down our—”
“Shut up, Brandy,” said Mist. “Yes, a fire would be nice.”
“See you soon, then,” said Morrolan.
“Quite soon, I expect,” said Mist, and they turned and sped off the way they’d come.
There was a good tailor who lived near my flat. I went to see him late in the afternoon of the next day and ordered a full, grey cloak. I also ordered a new jerkin, with ribbing parallel to the collarbone. I lusted after a hat with a tall plume, but didn’t get it.
The tailor said, “Come into some funds, eh?”
I didn’t know what to say so I just gave him a terse nod. I don’t know what he read into that, but his eyes widened just a bit, showing what could have been fear. A small thrill passed through me as I turned away and said, “I’ll expect them in a week.”
He said, “Yes, they’ll be done.” He sounded just a bit breathless.
I went a bit farther down the street and bought a brace of throwing knives. I resolved to start practicing with them.
Then I reported in to Nielar. He nodded to me and sent me to the room with the shereba game. Two days before, I’d been playing there, and a large Jhereg had thrown me out after I’d gotten into a tussle with another customer. Now I was sitting where the Jhereg had sat. I tried to look as relaxed and unconcerned as he’d been. I guess I was partially successful. But, hell, I enjoyed it.
We lost most of the day eating and socializing with the cat-centaurs and enjoying it, although it got us no closer to our goal. I don’t usually gamble, but these poor, uncivilized creatures didn’t even know how to play S’yang Stones, so I had to show them, didn’t I? We had a good medium of exchange, too, as there are certain cuts of kethna that are better than others. The cat-centaurs were fairly dexterous, so I quit when they were starting to catch on.
Mist said, “I suspect that I won’t be thanking you for teaching us this game, in another few weeks.”
“It’s just harmless fun,” I said between bites of my fresh-roasted winnings. As they say, gambling isn’t fun; winning is fun.
It was fun exchanging banter with them, and I learned to know when I was pushing one too far by watching the tail, which would have been very strange if I’d stopped to think about it. Morrolan did some healing spells on three of the cat-centaurs whose left legs had been injured in one way or another.
“There’s been a rash of that lately,” said Mist after thanking him.
“A curse?” said Morrolan.
“Just bad luck, I think.”
“There’s a lot of that going around,” said Morrolan.
“Especially where you’re going.”
Morrolan shrugged. “I don’t imagine you know much more about the place than we do.”
“I usually avoid it.”
“We would, too, if we could,” said Morrolan.
Mist stared at the ground, her tail flicking. “Why are you going there?”
Morrolan said, “It’s a long story.”
Mist said, “We have time for long tales. Shut up, Brandy.”
Morrolan seemed disinclined to talk about it, so a silence fell. Then a male I didn’t recognize approached Mist and handed her something. She took and studied it. I hadn’t noticed before how long and sleek her hands were, and her fingernails made me wince, recalling a girl I once knew. What Mist held seemed to be a piece of bone. After some study she said, “Yes. This will do.” She handed it to Morrolan.
He took it, puzzled, while I went around behind him and stared at it over his shoulder. It probably had been broken from the skull of the kethna. It was very roughly square, about two inches on a side, and I could see some thin tracings on it. I could make nothing whatsoever of the markings.
Morrolan said, “Thank you. What—”
“Should you come across Kelchor in the Paths of the Dead, and show her this token, it may be that she’ll protect you.” She paused. “On the other hand, she may not.”
“Gods are like that,” said Morrolan.
“Aren’t they, though,” said Mist.
I had my doubts about whether either of them actually knew anything.
Here’s something you can do, if you ever get the mood. Find a Dragaeran who isn’t inclined to beat you up, and start talking about magic. Watch the curl of his lip when he hears about witchcraft. Then start discussing numbers associated with the art. Talk about how, with some spells, you want two black candles and one white one, other times you want two white ones and no black. Mention that, for instance, in one of the simpler love spells you must use three pinches of rosemary. The size of a “pinch” doesn’t matter, but the number three is vital. In another spell you can tell him, you must speak in lines of nine syllables, although what you say doesn’t matter.
Long about this time, he’ll be unable to hide his contempt and he’ll start going on about how silly it is to attach significance to numbers.
That’s when you get to have your fun. Cock your head to the side, stare at him quizzically, and say, “Why is the Dragaeran population broken up into seventeen Great Houses? Why are there seventeen months in the Dragaeran year? Why is seventeen times seventeen years the minimum time for a House to hold the throne and the Orb, while the maximum is three thousand something, or seventeen times seventeen times seventeen? Why are there said to be seventeen Great Weapons?”
He will open his mouth and close it once or twice, shake his head, and say, “But seventeen is the mystical number.”
Now you can nod wisely, your eyes twinkling, say, “Oh, I see,” and walk away.
I mention this only because I have a little nagging feeling that the Dragaerans may be right. At least, it does seem that the number seventeen keeps popping up when I least expect it.
At any rate, I was seventeen years old the first time I was paid to kill a man.
We made our farewells to the cat-centaurs the next morning. Mist and Morrolan exchanged words that struck me as a bit formal and pompous on both sides. Brandy and I enjoyed making fun of them, though, and Loiosh had a few remarks as well.
Then Mist came up to me, her tail swishing, and she seemed to be smiling. She said, “You are a good companion.”
I said, “Thanks.”
She paused, and I was afraid she was gathering herself together for some speech that I’d have trouble keeping a straight face for, but then she lowered her spear until its point was a few inches from my breast. Loiosh tensed to spring.
Mist said, “You may touch my spear.”
Oh. Peachy. I had to restrain myself from glancing over at Brandy to see if he was sniggering. But what the hell. I touched it, then drew my rapier.
I said, “You may touch my sword.”
She did so, solemnly. And you know, all sarcasm aside, I was moved by the whole thing. Mist gave Morrolan and me a last nod, then she led her friends or tribe or companions, or whatever, back into the plain. Morrolan and I watched them until they were out of sight, then got our things together and set off for the mountains.
After walking a few more hours, Morrolan stopped again and stared straight ahead, toward the base of the mountains. He said, “I think I can make out enough details to teleport us safely.”
I said, “Better be sure. Let’s walk another few hours.”
He glanced at me. “I’m sure.”