And then she arrived: Hevlika, looking just as I remembered her. She smiled and nodded as she walked toward the stage. A man was with her, a Teckla, and he carried an instrument I recognized as a lant. He found a stool that had been set aside near the side of the stage, and began tuning while Hevlika went around the room saying hello to people and generally being gracious as only an Issola can. I touched Lady Teldra’s hilt and remembered things I don’t feel like talking about.
Eventually she made her way to the stage, had a whispered conversation with the lant player, and started.
I’ve described her dancing before, I won’t try to do it again. I will say it wasn’t until she was done that I realized she’d done all of that on a stage barely big enough for a full split (that’s what they call it when they spread their legs and smack their crotch on the stage; I know stuff). Just the fact that I never noticed how cramped she must have been is a testament. I wish I knew more about dance so I could describe it better. I’ll say the Teckla liked it: they all seemed to be holding their breath, and everyone’s eyes got as big and round as Ouffach’s. I think Hevlika must have danced for an hour or more without a break, although it didn’t seem like it at the time. When she was done, they all yelled and cried and stomped their feet, and I did, too, and I sat there wondering how many thousands of hours it takes to get every little muscle in your body to be able to do exactly what you want, down to the tiniest flutter, and then to coordinate it to music. You want to talk magic, that’s magic.
It calmed down, and they left the stage, but no one left—it seemed that after the show they went around and talked to everyone again, saying hello, laughing and smiling a lot. She was an Issola; I should get used to it.
As she finished speaking to people, the ones who had said hello to her would slowly say their good-byes and make their way out the door, like this was a regular part of the festivities. Eventually, Hevlika and the Teckla made their way to our table. They looked a little startled to see me, but smiled, and then greeted Ouffach by name. They received our compliments on the performance with modest grace, and made sure we understood how much they enjoyed it.
When they moved on to the next table, Ouffach stood up with a grunt and said, “Have I earned the coins?”
“Oh, yes,” I said.
She nodded. “Then I’ll bid you a good evening, Easterner. I have kethna to feed in the morning.”
“‘Or there will be no bacon for Endweek.’” I completed. Her lips twitched. I stood up and bowed, which seemed to charm her. It’s what comes of hanging around with Issola. She left; I sat down and waited.
“How long, Boss?”
“A while yet. Sorry.”
“All right.”
I ordered another beer. Compared to the wine, it was spectacular. I waited until Hevlika and the musician had spoken to everyone, by which time the place was empty except for them, the tired-looking hostess, and one old guy snoring behind a wall of empty cups. As Hevlika went by me, I said, “May I trouble you for a moment’s conversation, my lady?”
This is not the kind of question an Issola finds it easy to say no to; she nodded with no hesitation and sat down. The musician picked up that I was interested in talking to her rather than them, so he smiled to both of us and headed out, instrument over his shoulder like a Dragonlord carries his pike.
“Can I buy you a beer? I’d offer you wine, but believe me, you don’t want it.”
She smiled and turned to the hostess, who nodded and returned with a wine bottle and two glasses. She poured it for us. It was a very, very dark red, but after raising a glass in thanks to Hevlika, I tasted it, and was pleasantly surprised. The hostess stood there and waited until I paid her, then grunted, left the bottle, and shuffled off.
“I guess they keep this around for you,” I said.
She smiled. “I’m Hevlika.”
“I’m … Szurke.”
She caught the hesitation and I shrugged. “I pick among several different names,” I said. “I decided you deserved the best.”
“You’re very kind. What did you wish to talk about?”
“The late wife of Lord Zhayin.”
There should have been at least a small sense of triumph in shocking an Issola, but in fact I felt sort of bad. I waited while she drank some wine and recovered.
“Her Ladyship,” she said at last. I guess that really was her name. Must have been interesting when she was a child.
I nodded. “I’ve heard that something happened to her. What was it?”
“May I ask why you wish to know?”
That’s the thing about Issola: because you know how hard it is for them to say no, you have just as much trouble saying no to them. “It’s complicated,” I said at last. “It involves a big house near Adrilankha, the Halls of Judgment, passages through ti—”
“The Halls of Judgment,” she repeated.
I nodded.
She drank some more wine. “That’s where it happened,” she said at last. Her eyes lost focus.
“What happened?” I said after a moment.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. No one knows, exactly.”
“But Her Ladyship visited the Halls while living?”
She nodded. At one time I had thought Zerika and I were the only ones. Now it was starting to seem like an official Imperial pastime.
“And she was with child at the time?”
The dancer tilted her head curiously. “I hadn’t heard that.”
“Ah,” I said. “Perhaps I was misinformed.”
“You are well spoken,” she said.
“For an Easterner, you mean?” She nodded. “I read a lot,” I told her. “You see us as like Teckla, but we’re really outside of the rules.”
“I see. Of course, most of what I know I’ve picked up from poems, folktales, the theatre. It’s one thing to know those are unreliable, it’s another to know what to put in their place.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
“I hope I didn’t give offense.”
I laughed. “I get offended when people try to kill me. And it hurts my feelings when they swing blunt objects at me. Other than that, I don’t worry about it.”
“I understand. Do you have love poetry?”
“Me? No.”
“I mean your people.”
“Oh. Sure. Also love songs, erotic paintings, and ribald stories.”
“We have those, too.”
“Issola? I find that hard to believe. I mean, ribald stories.”
She laughed. “You should hear us when no one is around.” She winked.
“I’d give pure gold to.”
“I’ll keep that in mind if we meet again.”
“Oh, we’ll meet again.”
“Oh?”
“I’m an Easterner, we can tell these things.”
She smiled politely without making it look like she was smiling politely. “You should try your hand at love poetry,” she said.
“I don’t think so. There’s enough bad poetry in the world without my contribution.”
“Very well.”
“Why, though?”
“It’ll help.”
I snorted. “Help with what?”
“Your grief.”
“What grief?”
“You know what I mean, Lord Szurke.”
“I really don’t.”
“You mean you don’t keep composing letters to her in your head? You don’t keep wanting to tell her how wretched you are, but then you don’t send them, because what if she took you back because you were wretched? How terrible that would be, you tell yourself. When something happens—something funny, or interesting, or sad—you look around to tell her about it, then you remember. And you want to tell her that is going on, but you don’t, because you don’t want to add to her burdens, only you do want to add to her burdens, and you hate that you want to add to her burdens. You wonder if she’s seeing someone else, and you hope she is, and you hope she isn’t, and you hate that it matters so much. And maybe you’ve found someone else yourself, but you worry that it isn’t fair to her, and then you worry that you shouldn’t worry about that, and then it infuriates you that you’re spending so much time thinking about it, and so it all turns into aimless grief.”