Gaborn laughed. It was the kind of perfect thing Borenson would say. The man was a terror in battle.
The Days seemed relieved by Gaborn's good humor. He leaned forward conspiratorially. “To tell you the truth, Your Lordship, I think Borenson admires another attribute in dogs. One he did not name.”
“Which is?”
“Loyalty.”
Gaborn laughed harder. “So, Borenson is a dog?”
“No. He only aspires to be one. If I may be so bold, I fear he has all of dog's finest virtues but loyalty.”
“So you don't believe he is a good man?”
“He's an assassin. A butcher, Your Lordship. That is why he is captain of your guard.”
This angered Gaborn. The Days was wrong. The historian smiled drunkenly, took another swig to fortify his courage.
The Days continued, “In fact, none of your friends are very good people, Your Lordship. You don't value virtue in your friends.”
“What do you mean?” Gaborn asked. He'd always thought his friends had an acceptable level of virtue.
“It is simple, Your Lordship,” the Days said. “Some men pick their friends based on looks, others on wealth or political station, others on common interests. Some choose friends based on their virtue. But you do not value any of these traits, highly.”
It was true, Gaborn had friends among the ugly, the powerless. His friend Eldon Parris sold roasted rabbits in a public market. And Gaborn also enjoyed the company of more than one person who might best be described as a scoundrel.
“Then how do I pick my friends?” Gaborn asked.
“Because you are young, you value men based upon their insights into the human heart, Your Lordship.”
This statement struck Gaborn like a blast of air off a frozen lake. It was stunning, refreshingly honest, and, of course, obviously true.
“I had never noticed...”
The Days laughed. “It's one of the seven keys to understanding motives. I fear, young master Gaborn, you are lousy at picking friends. Hah! I sometimes imagine how it will be when you are a king: You'll surround yourselves with eccentrics, and scholars. In no time they'll have you taking garlic enemas and wearing pointy shoes! Hah!”
“Seven keys? Where did you learn such lore?” Gaborn asked.
“In the Room of Dreams,” the Days said. Then he suddenly sat up straight, recognizing his mistake.
In the House of Understanding, the Room of Dreams was forbidden to Runelords. The secrets one learned there, of human motivations and desires, were considered by scholars to be too powerful to put in the hands of a king.
Gaborn smiled triumphantly at this little tidbit, raised his glass in toast. “To dreams.”
But the Days would not toast with him. The man would most likely never drink in Gaborn's presence again.
From a far corner of the room, a small ratlike ferrin woman came out of the shadows, bearing one of her pups in hand. The pup squealed in its small way, but the Days did not hear it, didn't have Gaborn's keen ears. All six of the ferrin woman's nipples were red and swollen, and she wore a yellow rag tied round her shoulders. She stood only a foot tall, and her pudgy face was accented by thick jowls. She waddled up behind the Days, nearly blinded by daylight, and stuffed the pup in the Days' coat pocket.
The ferrin were not an intelligent people. They had a language of sorts, used some crude tools. Most folk considered them vermin, since the ferrin constantly tunneled into houses to steal food.
Gaborn had heard it was common for a ferrin woman to wean her pups this way, by finding an inn, then sending the pup off in the pocket of a stranger. But he'd never seen it happen.
Many a man would have tossed a dagger into the ferrin. Gaborn smiled blandly, averted his eyes.
Good, he thought, let the pup eat the lining of the damned historian's coat.
He waited until the ferrin finished.
“And what of me?” Gaborn asked the drunken Days. “Am I a good man?”
“You, Your Lordship, are the soul of virtue!”
Gaborn smiled. He could expect no other answer. In the back of the common room, an Inkarran singer struck up the mandolin, began to practice for the crowd that would gather later. Gaborn had seldom seen an Inkarran play, since his own father would not let them cross the borders, and he enjoyed the diversion now.
The Inkarran had skin as light as cream and hair that fell like liquid silver; his eyes were as green as ice. His body was tattooed in the manner of his tribe—blue symbols of vines twining up his legs, with images that brought to mind the names of his ancestors and his home village. On his knees and arms were images of knots and other magic symbols.
The man sang with a throaty crooning, a very powerful voice. It was beautiful in its own way, and hinted that this singer wore the “hidden runes of talent.” The art of creating hidden runes was mastered only by a few Inkarrans. Yet, despite these runes, the singer's voice could not duplicate the ethereal tones sung by the virtuoso outside the songhouse an hour ago. His voice was more generous, Gaborn decided. The woman at the songhouse had sung for wealth and prestige, but this man sung now merely to entertain. A generous gesture.
The Days stared down at his mug, knowing he'd said too much, needing to say one thing more. “Your Lordship, perhaps it is well that you do not value virtue in your friends. You will know not to trust them. And if you are wise, you will not trust yourself.”
“How so?” Gaborn asked, wondering. With each Days twinned to another, they were never alone, never had the luxury of trusting themselves. Gaborn wondered if this pairing was really an advantage.
“Men who believe themselves to be good, who do not search their own souls, most often commit the worst atrocities. A man who sees himself as evil will restrain himself. It is only when we do evil in the belief that we do good that we pursue it wholeheartedly.”
Gaborn grunted, considering.
“If I may be so bold, Your Lordship, I'm glad you question yourself. Men don't become good by performing an occasional kindly deed. You must constantly reexamine your thoughts and acts, question your virtue.”
Gaborn stared at the thin scholar. The man's eyes were getting glassy, and he could barely hold his head up. His thinking seemed somewhat clearer than a common drunk's, and he offered his advice in a kind tone. No Days had ever offered Gaborn advice before. It was a singular experience.
At that moment, the inn door opened. Two more men entered, both with dark complexion, both with brown eyes. They were dressed as merchants fresh off the road, but both wore rapiers at their side, and' both had long knives strapped at their knees.
One man smiled, one frowned.
Gaborn remembered something his father had taught him as a child. “In the land of Muyyatin, assassins always travel in pairs. They talk with gestures.” Then Gaborn's father had taught him the assassins' codes. One man smiling, one man frowning—No news, either good or bad.
Gaborn's eyes flicked across the room, to the two dark men in the far corner. Like himself, they had chosen a secure position, had put their backs to the wall.
One man in the corner scratched his left ear: We have heard nothing.
The newcorners sat at a table on the far side of the room from their compatriots. One man put his hands on the table, palms down. We wait.
Yet this man moved with a casual quickness that could only be associated with someone who had an endowment of metabolism. Few men had such an endowment—only highly trusted warriors.
Gaborn almost could not believe what he was seeing. The gestures were so common, so casual. The speakers did not stare at one another. Indeed, what Gaborn thought was a discussion could have been nothing.
Gaborn glanced around the room. No one in the room could be a target for assassins—no one but him. Yet he felt certain he was not their target. He'd traveled in disguise all day. Bannisferre was full of wealthy merchants and petty lords—the assassins could be hunting one of them, or could even be tracking one of their kinsmen from the South. Gaborn was not properly armed to fight such men. He rose without explanation and left the inn to search for Borenson. Just as he stood, the serving boy brought a passable dinner of roast pork and fresh bread with plums.