The back room was narrow and stuffy and smelled of pipe smoke, although Kelly didn't have the teeth of a smoker. Come to think of it, he probably didn't have any vices at all. Except overeating, anyway. Shame he was an Easterner. Dragaerans can use sorcery to remove excess fat; Easterners tend to kill themselves trying. There were rows of leather-bound books all around the room, with black or sometimes brown bindings. I couldn't read any of the titles, but the author of one of them was Padraic Kelly.
He nodded me into a stiff wooden chair and sat in another one behind a rickety-looking desk. I pointed to the book and said, "You wrote that?"
He followed my pointing finger. "Yes."
"What is it?"
"It's a history of the uprising of two twenty-one."
"Where was that?"
He looked at me closely, as if to see if I were joking, then said, "Right here, in South Adrilankha."
I said, "Oh." I cleared my throat. "Do you read poetry as well?"
"Yes," he said.
I sighed to myself. I didn't really want to walk in and start haranguing him, but there didn't seem to be a whole lot else to talk about. What's the use? I said, "Cawti's been telling me something about what you do." He nodded, waiting, "I don't like it," I said, and his eyes narrowed. "I'm not happy that Cawti's involved." He kept staring at me, not saying anything.
I sat back in the chair, crossed my legs. "But all right. I don't run her life. If she wants to waste her time this way, there's nothing I can do about it." I paused, waiting for him to make some sort of interjection. When he didn't, I said, "What bothers me is this business of teaching reading classes—that's what Franz was doing, wasn't it?"
"That, and other things," he said, tight-lipped.
"Well then, I'm offering you a deal. I'll find out who killed Franz and why, if you drop these classes, or get someone else to teach them."
He never took his eyes off me. "And if not?"
I started to get irritated, probably because he was making me feel uncomfortable and I don't like that. I clenched my teeth together, stifling the urge to say what I thought of him. I finally said, "Don't make me threaten you. I dislike threatening people."
He leaned over the desk, and his eyes were narrowed more than usual, his lips were pressed tightly together. He said, "You come in here, on the heels of the death of a man who was martyred to—"
"Spare me."
"Quiet! I said martyred and I meant it. He was fighting for what he believed in, and he was killed for it."
He stared hard at me for a moment, then he continued in a tone of voice that was softer but cutting. "I know what you do for a living," he said. "You don't even realize the depths to which you've sunk."
I touched the hilt of a dagger but didn't draw it. "You're right," I said. "I don't realize the depths to which I've sunk. It would be really stupid of you to tell me about it."
"Don't tell me what is and is not stupid. You're incapable of judging that, or anything else that falls outside the experience of your tiny world. It doesn't even occur to you that there could be anything wrong with selling death as if it were any commodity on the market."
"No," I said. "It doesn't. And if you're quite finished—"
"But it isn't just you. Think of this, Lord Killer: How much of what anyone does is something he'd do willingly, if he didn't have to? You accept that without thinking about it or questioning it, don't you? While Easterners and Teckla are forced to sell half their children to feed the rest. You think it doesn't happen, or do you just refuse to look at it?"
He shook his head, and I could see his teeth were clenched in his jowls and his eyes were so narrow I'm surprised he could see out of them. "What you do—mankind doesn't get any lower. I don't know if you do it because you have no choice, or because you've been so twisted that you like it, but it doesn't matter. In this building you will find men and women who can be proud of what they do, because they know there will be a better future for it. And you, with your snide, cynical wit, not only refuse to look at it, but try to tell us how to go about it. We have no time for you or for your deals. And your threats don't impress us either."
He paused, maybe to see if I had anything to say. I didn't.
He said, "Get out of here."
I stood up and left.
"The difference between winning and losing is whether you feel like going home afterwards."
"Not bad, boss. So where are we going?"
"I don't know."
"We could go back to Herth's place, spit in his soup and see what he says about that."
I didn't think this was at all a good idea.
It was still afternoon, and the Easterners' section was in full swing. There were markets every few blocks, and each was different. This one was yellow, orange, red, and green with vegetables and smelled like fresh things and the sound was a low hum. That one was pale and pink and smelled of meat, most of it still good, and it was quieter, so you could even hear the wind rattling around inside your ear. The next one was mostly fabrics and the loudest, because no one bargains like a fabric merchant, with screams and yells and pleading. They don't ever seem to tire of it, either. I get tired of things. I get tired of lots of things. I get tired of walking around Morrolan's castle to check up on his guards, traps, and alarms. I get tired of talking to my associates in codes that even I don't understand half the time. I get tired of breaking out in a sweat every time I see the uniform of the Phoenix Guards. I get tired of being treated with contempt for being a Jhereg by other Houses, and for being an Eastern
"You have to find an answer, boss."
"I know. I just tried."
"So try something else."
"Yeah."
I found that I had wandered over to the area near where my grandfather lived, which couldn't have been an accident although it felt like one. I walked through his doorway and set the chimes ringing. They were cheerful. I actually started feeling better as I stepped over the threshold. Chimes. Now, there's a witch for you.
He was sitting at his table, writing or drawing with a quill pen on a big piece of parchment. He was old, but very healthy. A big man. If Kelly was chubby, my grandfather was portly. His head was almost completely bald, so it reflected the little lamps of the shop. He looked up when he heard the chimes and gave me a big grin with his remaining teeth.
"Vladimir!"
"Hello, Noish-pa."
We hugged and he kissed my cheek. Loiosh flew off my shoulder onto a shelf until we were done, then flew to Noish-pa's arm for some chin-scratching. His familiar, a large furry cat named Ambrus, jumped into my lap when I sat down and poked his nose at me. We got reacquainted. Noish-pa hooked a small card onto the string that held the chimes and motioned me into his back room. I smelled herb tea and started feeling even better.
He served us, tsking when I put honey in mine. I sipped it. Rose hip.
"So, how is my grandson?"
"So-so, I guess, Noish-pa."
"Only so-so?"
I nodded.
"You have a problem," he said.
"Yeah. It's complicated."
"Simple things are never problems, Vladimir. Some simple things are sad, but never problems."
"Yeah."
"So, how did this problem start?"
"How did it start? Someone named Franz was killed."
"Ah! Yes. A terrible thing."
I stared at him. "You know about it?"
"It is on everyone's tongue."
"It is?"
"Well, these people, his… what is the word? Elvtarsok?"
"Friends? Associates?"
"Well, these people are everywhere, and they talk about it."
"I see."
"But you, Vladimir. You are not one of these people, are you?"
I shook my head. "Cawti is."
He sighed. "Vlad, Vlad, Vlad. It is silliness. If a revolution comes along, of course you support it. But to go out of your way like this is to put your head on the block."