Hossi found me in a copse of trees, just within the pickets. The latrines were behind me, but the wind was blowing the other way, so it was fine.
“What are you up to, Birn,” he said. “Reading?”
“No,” I told him. “I’m just holding this book to discourage conversation.”
He sat down next to me. “How’s that working for you?”
“Great,” I said. “Perfect.”
“If you’re serious about wanting to be alone—”
“No, it’s all right.”
I closed the book. He leaned over and read the spine, then made a “tsh” sound. “Don’t you know it’s bad luck to read that before a battle.”
“Oh?” I said. “Is there going to be a battle, do you think?”
He laughed more than it was worth. “Oh, I know there’s going to be a battle. I just can’t remember which side we’re supposed to be on.”
“Who cares? It’s a Dzur reign; it isn’t going to make much difference anyway.”
“Yeah, maybe we should just nap. Think the captain would mind?”
“Think the captain would notice?”
I stowed the book in my pack. When I’d closed it, he was looking a lot more serious. “This is a stupid battle to get killed in, isn’t it?”
“Yes and no,” I said. “I mean, sure, a pointless border skirmish that won’t settle anything. But, battle is battle, right? And if we’re dead after the battle, we won’t much care.”
He gave me a wry smile. “All the e’Drien women are fatalists,” he said.
I elbowed his shoulder. “And all the e’Lanya men are philosophers. Let’s go and get killed.”
The drum sounded, right on cue.
We got up, went back to camp, pulled on our gear, and lined up.
The drum started again and we moved out. “Duck fast,” he told me.
“Duck fast,” I said back.
An hour later I was standing over him while he desperately tried to stop the bleeding from a long gash in his upper arm that went down to bone. I planned to help him if people would leave me alone long enough, but things were busy: it was one of those chaotic, close-pressed battles where skill with a blade meant nothing compared to who was pressing hardest. I’d always hated those. You can get a minor wound and end up trampled to death by your own side.
I was also bleeding myself, you understand, but only a few scratches.
Battles are loud. Also, they stink. But an occasional wind can relieve the stink for a bit, and sometimes, like loud conversations in crowded inns, there comes a relative lull. I faced off against a guy with two shortswords and a big nose, and I heard Hossi say, “See you next life, maybe, Birn.”
I didn’t look down, but I said, “I think you might live through this,” and then something hit me hard in the head and I had the sudden thought, Bad luck or not, I’m glad I read the Guide before this started.
And then there was nothing.
“Are you all right?” said Discaru.
I realized that he’d already asked me that a couple of times.
“I think so,” I said. “There’s a lot of dying going on.”
“Oh. Yeah. Death memories are traumatic. Try not to relive too many of them at once.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I guess, whatever I’d been focused on, it was about death. Just what I want to be thinking about, right? I mean, contemplating death is perfectly fine when you’re safe, but when you’re in danger it’ll just get you killed.
And there I was thinking about it again; I made sure I wasn’t looking at the fountain. Instead I was looking at—
—The Halls of Judgment. What was I doing there? Well, I was trying to solve a mystery, and, somehow or other, the Halls of Judgment were tied into it. The question was, how?
I turned back to the fountain again and watched the dance of the water.
I left early when I got the message from the Priestess, but it was Homeday, so there wasn’t a lot of reason to stay. I ran my operations out of a back room of the Sleeping Cat, which I owned through a couple of layers of friends. The Cat was in a part of Dragaera City that didn’t have a lot of action on Homeday, being just far enough from the Palace to be full of the dwellings of civil servants as well as markets and entertainments for them.
I took Dosci and Ven, and our first stop was to the temple of Verra on Prince Lagginer Street. I left them outside, because no one will pull anything at a temple. I made an offering and a prayer so as not to stand out, then walked around behind and clapped outside of the door to the rectory. After a moment, the Priestess appeared. She was an Athyra, and I never knew her name; I just called her Priestess. It being an early Iorich reign, she called me “my lord.” She bowed and invited me in, had me sit, offered wine, which I declined.
“I have it, my lord,” she said, before I could ask.
“That’s good, that’s good. Was it hard to get?”
Her brows went up. “Do you actually care?”
I shrugged. “I’m a caring kinda guy. And I had an Issola nanny.”
“No, it wasn’t hard, it just took time.” She reached down next to her chair and picked up a small package, wrapped in paper the color of diluted red wine. She handed it to me. “And your end?”
I nodded. “Looking into the future, I gotta feeling you won’t need to find a new location for many, many years.”
“And?”
“Yes, that’s all. I don’t need nothin’ else, so I won’t be back. Unless I feel a sudden urge to pray.”
Everyone I know would have made some sort of remark, like, “I could recommend some places,” or even, “don’t hurry.” But she was an Athyra; she just nodded.
Dosci and Ven were where I’d left them, and they fell into step with me. My next stop was Black Swans Park, a tiny little place with a pond and worn stone benches and very few trees. It was a good place to relax because there was no way for anyone to sneak up on you. I sat down and opened the package.
A very simple pendant, a jhereg in black on a silver chain, about half the size of my palm. I put it over my head, slid it into my jerkin, against the skin of my chest. It felt a little cold, but there was no sensation other than that. Nor would there be. While I lived.
“I don’t suppose,” I said to the inker, “you can tell me what it means?”
He looked embarrassed. “Sorry, m’lady. That would take a diviner. And even then—”
“It’s all right,” I said, suddenly in a good mood in spite of pinpricks; I wasn’t used to being “my lady” to anyone. I resolved to spend more time around tradesmen.
To distract myself from the constant stinging, I looked around the shop. There was little enough to see: curtains, a table, a shelf for his inks, samples of his work (mostly sketches, with a couple of cheap psiprints), and his House emblem, a chreotha, over the door. I tried to get involved in the art, but it just wouldn’t hold my interest.
“So,” I said, “you know what it is?”
“It is your guide through the Paths, my lady. And permit me to hope it will be countless centuries before you need it.”
“Thank you,” I said, but that killed the conversation, so my attention was on the pinpricks again.
I tried again. “Does your family have one?”
“A length of string, my lady,” he said. “It has different sorts of knots tied in it at different intervals, which correspond to the choices we will face.”
“Accurate?”