About then, Loiosh caught something of my thoughts and said, “Wait a minute, boss. Just who do you think you’re leaving behind?”
“You, chum. Sorry.”
“Crap. You can’t—”
“Yes I can. One does not bring a jhereg to visit a Dragonlord. At least not on a first visit.”
“But—”
“You’re not expendable, you’re not stupid, and you’re not going.”
This gave us something to argue about until I reached the place I was looking for, which helped distract me. The thing is, I was really terrified. I very badly wanted not to go, but I couldn’t think of any way out of it. I tried to picture myself showing up there and I couldn’t. Yet, if I didn’t follow up on Quion, my reputation would suffer, and, in the Jhereg, reputation means money and safety.
I found Ferenk’s, which was right where I’d been told it would be, and I stepped inside, pausing to let my eyes adjust to the relative darkness. I’d never been there before, but my grandfather had recommended it as the place to find good Fenarian brandy.
One thing that shed a great deal of light on how Dragaerans think was when I realized that they had no term for brandy, even though they had the drink. They called it wine, and, I guess, just had to know the bottler to decide how strong it was and what it tasted like. To me, brandy and wine aren’t even close in taste, and maybe they aren’t to Dragaerans, either. The thing is, Dragaerans don’t care if they taste different, or that the process of making one has almost nothing to do with the process of making the other; the point is, they are alcoholic drinks made from fruit, so they must be the same thing. Interesting, no?
Easterners don’t have that problem. Ferenk’s especially didn’t have that problem. One entire wall behind the long, dark, hardwood bar was filled with different Fenarian brandies, about half of them peach. I was very impressed. I hadn’t known there were that many in existence. I was very glad that the Empire wasn’t currently at war with Fenario.
The place was pretty much empty. I licked my lips and sat down at a tall, high-backed chair right at the bar. The host glanced at Loiosh, then wiped the counter in front of me and looked an inquiry.
I glanced at the peach brandies and said, “A glass of Oregigeret.”
He nodded. “Dead bodies and seaweed, eh?”
I said, “Is that what you call it?”
He shrugged. “Well, it isn’t what I’d call gentle.”
I said, “What do you recommend?”
He glanced at the wall and picked out a short, round bottle and showed it to me. The label was faded, but I could see the lettering, which read “Barackaranybol.”
I said, “Okay. I’ll try a glass of that.”
He pulled out a glass, reached under his counter, and put some ice into it. My first reaction was to be impressed that he could afford to buy the ice, not to mention the spells to keep it cold. Such things aren’t cheap around here. But then I realized what he was doing and I said, “No, no. I don’t want ice in it.”
He looked disgusted. He pulled out a pitcher, filled the glass with water, and pushed it in front of me. Then he poured some brandy into another glass and set that next to the water. He said, “I’m just giving you some water to clear your mouth out before you drink the brandy. You know how to drink ‘em; I know how to pour ‘em, okay?”
I said, “Right,” to the host, and started to sip the brandy.
I heard Loiosh giggling. “Shut up,” I told him. I put the brandy down, took a sip of water, then drank some of the brandy. The brandy was very good.
“I’ll have the same,” came from right behind me. The voice was low in pitch, velvety, and very familiar. I turned and felt a smile growing on my face.
“Kiera!”
“Hello, Vlad.”
Kiera the Thief sat down next to me.
I said, “What are you doing around here?”
“Tasting Fenarian brandies.”
The host was staring at her, half hostile and half fearful. I was a Jhereg but at least I was human. Kiera was a Dragaeran. I took a look around and saw that the three other customers in the place were staring at Kiera with expressions that held different mixtures of fear and hatred. I turned back to the host and said, “The lady asked for a drink.”
He glanced at the table where the other three humans sat, at Kiera, then back at me. I held his gaze, waiting. He licked his lips, hesitated, then said, “Right,” and poured her the same thing he’d given me. Then he wandered over to the other end of the bar. I shrugged, and Kiera and I moved to a table.
“So,” I said. “Come here often?”
She smiled. “I’ve heard that you’re having some troubles.”
I shook my head. “Someday I’ll find out how you learn these things.”
“Maybe you will. Do you need help, Vlad?”
“Just courage, I think.”
“Oh?”
“You probably know one of my button-men has been stealing the eggs.”
“Yeah. And mama hen isn’t happy.”
“Papa rooster if you don’t mind.”
“Right. What are you doing about it?”
“Going somewhere I don’t want to go, for starters.”
“Where?”
“Have you ever heard of Castle Black?”
Her eyes widened appreciatively. “A Dragonlord named Morrolan, I believe,” she said.
“Right.”
She cocked her head to the side. “I’ll tell you what, Vlad. You go ahead and follow him there. If Morrolan kills you, he won’t live out the month.”
I felt a lump rise in my throat. After a moment I said, “Going into another line of work, Kiera?”
She smiled. “We all have friends.”
“Well, thanks,” I said. “That’s yet another one I owe you.”
She nodded, still smiling. Then she got up, said, “Good wine,” and walked out of the place.
And it’s funny. Revenge is rather silly. I mean, I’d be dead, why should I care? Yet, somehow, her saying that was just what I needed to reassure me. I still can’t figure out why.
I had another drink after she left and, just to prove Loiosh wrong, stopped at two. I called on my link to the Orb once more, and found I still had a couple of hours before I had to be back at the office. I paid the host, told him I’d be back sometime, and headed for home.
My grandfather has a white cat named Ambrus, who is the most intelligent cat I’ve ever met, as well as the oldest. I never actually played with him, the way people usually play with cats, but sometimes, when a child, I would sit and talk to him while my father and grandfather were in the other room, talking. I used to pretend that he could understand me, and either he really could, or my memory is playing tricks on me, because a normal cat couldn’t have responded the way Ambrus did: meowing exactly in answer to questions, purring when I told him I liked him, and extending his claws and swiping at the air behind him when I’d point that way and say, “Look out, a dragon.”
Knowing what I know now, I don’t think my memory is playing tricks on me.
In any case, one day when I was, I don’t know, maybe seven, my father saw me talking to him and scowled.
I said, “You don’t like cats, papa?”
He said, “It isn’t that. Never mind.”
I think I remember seeing Noish-pa standing behind him, watching the scene, and maybe smiling just a little.
Humans do witchcraft, Dragaerans do sorcery. I do both, which is unusual, so I’m in a good position to compare them. The one difference that keeps hitting me is that witchcraft is more fun. If a witch could teleport (a thing that seems impossible, but I could be wrong), it would involve hours of preparation, rituals, chanting, and filling all the senses with the desired result until the spell would work in a blinding explosion of emotional fulfillment.
Narvane, one of my enforcers and an excellent sorcerer, just said, “Ready?”
I said, “Yeah.”
He casually raised his hand, the office vanished around me, and I felt a lurch in my gut.