“The Horse! I hope so!”
“And yet—”
“Pel, what did you want to learn that you didn’t tell me about before?”
The Yendi sighed. “There are times that I regret—but I suppose there is no point in complaining, is there?”
“None that I can see.”
“My old friend, are you laughing at me?”
“Without malice, good Pel.”
“I accept that, then.”
“May I do myself the honor to repeat my question? What did you want to learn that you didn’t tell me about?”
“Khaavren, I know that you remember the false Jenoine invasion.”
“Of course.”
“And, no doubt, you remember the real one of a few years before, by the Lesser Sea.”
“I was not there.”
“No, but someone else was.”
“Sethra Lavode.”
“Well, yes. But that is not who I meant.”
“The Warlord?”
“She was also there, and yet—”
“Pel, do not make me guess.”
“Count Szurke.”
“What do you tell me?”
“I tell you that this Szurke—Lord Taltos the Jhereg—was first present at the Lesser Sea when the Jenoine attempted to break through, and then was the object of a false invasion a few years ago. And now he appears once more. I want to know what this Easterner is doing, and why he is doing it. I want to know his plans and intentions. He cannot be arrested, because he has made a friend of Her Majesty. But he is a mystery, and this disturbs me.”
“And so you wished me to find out—?”
“Everything about him.”
“And you didn’t ask me because—?”
“Her Majesty would not have approved of the investigation, your duty would have required you to inform her, and you, my friend, have the unfortunate habit of carrying out your duty.”
“It is true, I have acquired that habit.”
“And so?”
“Well, I understand.”
“I am gratified that you do.”
“Moreover—”
“Yes?”
“I give you my word that if I learn anything of interest to you, I will not hesitate to inform you, and that I will even make what effort I can to discover as much as possible about this Easterner and his intentions.”
“Thank you, Khaavren. The Empire thanks you.”
“Oh, the Empire is not in the habit of thanking anyone, save now and again through one who represents it; but I will accept your gratitude with pleasure.”
“You have it as a gift.”
“And one I will treasure, I assure you.”
Pel rose, bowed, and took his leave. Khaavren remained where he was for a moment, lost in old recollections. Then, with a shake of his head and a smile, he returned to his duties.
CHAPTER THE SIXTH
How Events Unfolded at the
Sign of the Owl’s Feet
Khaavren, who had planned to arrive three hours early on that Marketday, was, in fact, at his post five hours before the appointed time. The post, in this case, was full of wood, wood-working equipment, and the distinctive smells of wood and the various oils and potions used to treat it—a smell which brought back pleasant associations for Khaavren from when, as a child, he had spent time with his father’s carpenter, a pleasant, older Chreotha who was full of stories and was marvelously skilled with his hands.
Khaavren exchanged a few words with the wheelwright, a young Jhegaala full of new ideas that were, perhaps, not as interesting to Khaavren as they would have been to another wheelwright. Fortunately, the brigadier was not in a hurry on this occasion; he was perfectly willing to make sounds associated with interest until, at length, he was able to work the conversation around to those matters of more interest to himself—to wit, how, for a few coins, the proprietor would be willing to let Khaavren remain quietly in his shop. The proprietor, though disappointed at losing what he had hoped would be a customer, found solace in the coins. Khaavren carefully noted the expense in his note-book, and set about his task.
It was a warm day, with the enclouding so thin that shadows could be seen spreading out from buildings and walking in lockstep with passers-by. Khaavren leaned against the doorway, folded his arms, and settled in to wait. From this position, he watched the coming and going of the patrons of the Owl’s Feet. He made the guess that there were more than twenty patrons there. This was not surprising, as the Owl’s Feet dated back to before the Interregnum, and was known far and wide as a place with good food, better wine, and still better music. It was a two-story stone structure, marked by a sign showing the head of an owl above the feet of this bird; why it came to be called the Owl’s Feet rather than the Owl’s Head was something no one knew.
As Khaavren continued to watch, a group of eight arrived together, all of them in the green and white of the House of the Issola.
“Ah,” said Khaavren, and permitted himself a small smile. “Her Majesty will be disappointed, and, most likely, so will Pel.” This observation made, he checked to make certain his sword was loose in his scabbard, folded his arms, and resumed his vigil.
He recognized Lady Saruchka with no trouble when she arrived, some three-quarters of an hour before she was scheduled to play, which Khaavren had expected, Dinaand having told him that musicians customarily arrived early in order to prepare themselves and their instruments. At nearly the same time, two others arrived whom Khaavren guessed to be musicians, as they both carried cases that might contain instruments. Khaavren looked at them closely, because he was not unaware that these could be Jhereg, and the cases could conceal weapons. As he watched them, however, he decided that they were no more than they appeared to be.
In point of fact, an unexpected appearance by the Jhereg was his greatest worry. But Khaavren had been a Phoenix Guard too long to be easily deceived by a disguised Jhereg, and so he watched and studied. Khaavren’s other worry was that he would miss the arrival of Count Szurke, should the Easterner choose to disguise himself, or to arrive by some unexpected route. In the event, he need not have worried—Khaavren recognized him at once, in the same nondescript leather garments he had affected earlier, with a light brown cloak that revealed the hilt of a sword. Szurke walked up to the door as if he had no reason in the world not to, paused, turned, nodded to Khaavren, then opened the door and entered.
How did he know I was here? was Khaavren’s first thought. Why did he want me to know he knew? was his second. He remembered, then, what Timmer had told him about the Easterner using a pair of jhereg to spy for him, which, he concluded, might answer the first question.
There was no point in waiting further, both because everyone had arrived, and because the musicians were scheduled to begin performing in only a very few minutes, and Khaavren knew that, however unlikely, it was possible the musicians could begin near to the time when they said they would. Khaavren waited patiently while a mule-drawn cart filled with firewood passed by, then quickly crossed the street and entered the Owl’s Feet.
Khaavren waited by the door while his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the inn after the brightness of the street. The bar ran along the far end of the room; across from it, to Khaavren’s left, was a small stage area raised about half a foot higher than the floor; no doubt where the performers would place themselves so they could be seen over a press of bodies and heard over a rumble of conversation. There were doors at each end of the bar, one, Khaavren knew, leading to a storage area, the other to a hallway with private rooms, and thence to another door to the outside.