Tiassa (33 page)

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.

When his eyes had adjusted, he glanced over the rest of the room. The Issola were all seated close to the stage, four each at two tables. They were seated in front of and beside the tables; none behind them—that is to say, they were all in good position to rise and draw in the shortest possible time. At that point, he realized that Count Szurke was, to all appearances, nowhere in the room.

Khaavren mentally shrugged. He had no doubt the Easterner would appear soon enough. It was now past the time when the musicians had been scheduled to begin, and the audience was becoming restless; it was simply a matter of waiting. He leaned against the wall near the door and waited.

Adham and Dav-Hoel were the first up; Adham stepping onto the stage with a twirl of his lant over his head; Dav-Hoel merely stepping up, moving to the back of the stage, and fixing his gaze on the far end of the room.

Then, holding a reed-pipe, Lady Saruchka emerged, dressed in narrow pants of green and a tight-fitting white blouse. She smiled warmly at the audience as she stepped onto the stage.

And it was at this moment that the eight Issola all stood, as one, reaching for their weapons.

Khaavren wasn’t certain where he came from, but, somehow, the Easterner, Count Szurke, was standing in front of the stage. A light-weight sword was in his hand, and two jhereg were on his shoulders.

It seemed to Khaavren that it might be a reenactment, as it were, of the fight by the river.

The Issola charged.

The pair of jhereg leapt from Szurke’s shoulders, flying into the face of two of them.

There was a flash as something left the Easterner’s left hand, and one of the Issola stopped, staring down at a knife that had somehow appeared in his chest.

After that, however, it no longer resembled the battle by the river; Khaavren placed himself to the Easterner’s left, his sword out and ready.

It is possible Szurke would have made some observation about this remarkable event, but, in fact, he had no time; Issola, though not, perhaps, as inclined to violence as certain others, are known to not waste time when the moment for action arises. These eight certainly did not.

That the reader may have a clear understanding of events as they unfolded, it is absolutely necessary, at this time, to say two words about the positions of the significant individuals. (We use the qualifier “significant” to make it clear to the reader that we will not, at this time, be describing the position or action of the host or of those accidental patrons who do not figure in the calisthenics about to take place.)

So, then, as we look, the instant after the Easterner has thrown his knife, we see two of the Issola being chased about the room by jhereg, in a scene reminiscent of some of the lower-class bawdies available for four coppers on Verendu Lane. With one of the Issola concerned—quite reasonably in the opinion of this historian—with the knife that had penetrated a full three inches into his chest, this left five Issola who were charging Count Szurke.

Or so they thought. In fact, they were facing not only Szurke, but also Khaavren, who, drawing his sword, placed himself in a guard position beside the Easterner.

Khaavren, as was his custom on such occasions, feinted toward one long enough to interfere with her attack, so that he could concentrate on the other. This opponent was an exceptionally tall woman who wielded an especially long sword to add to this advantage. Khaavren, therefore, took a step forward as he parried her attack, after which he disengaged with lightning speed and, still moving in, passed his sword through her body, leaving her stretched out full length upon the floor.

Meanwhile, the Easterner had taken a peculiar stance in which only his side appeared as a target. He emerged with another small throwing knife, though exactly where on his person it had been concealed was impossible to say, and, with a flick of his wrist, sent it underhanded in the direction of one of his enemies. Although the weapon had been thrown too weakly to do any damage, and even failed to arrive at its target point-first, it nevertheless caused him to duck, which permitted Szurke to address himself to his other opponents. He took a step backward, then, much as Khaavren had, feinted toward one while in fact concentrating on the other. This man was in the process of making a lunge at the Easterner’s body—a lunge that would have had murderous effect if Szurke had remained where he was; however, not wishing to feel several inches of steel enter his vitals, he stepped lightly and quickly to the side, after which he delivered three very fast cuts with his thin blade to his opponent’s sword arm, with the result that the Issola’s weapon fell from his nerveless hand.

The three remaining Issola recovered their guard positions, as, in fact, did Khaavren. The two jhereg, as if by command, returned to the Easterner’s shoulders; the Issola they had been chasing took positions next to their comrades, also in guard positions. Szurke, for his part, not only did not assume a guard position, but, on the contrary, ignored his opponents entirely. Instead, he coolly turned toward the stage, bowed, and said, “My apologies for the delay in the beginning of your performance. I give you my word, I look forward to hearing your music once this little matter is disposed of.”

No one spoke. In fact, there was no sound at all, save soft, constant cursing from the Issola whose arm and hand the Easterner had cut and the moans from the one Khaavren had wounded.

Khaavren, never removing his eyes from his opponents, said, “My dear Count, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

“Well,” said the Easterner.

“You left so quickly before, that I feared the hospitality displeased you.”

“In fact,” said the other, “the klava left something to be desired.”

“Indeed? I am concerned to hear it.”

“It tasted as if it had been made with hot coffee, when, of course, the coffee must be made cold, then heated, then run through the filter.”

“I had not been aware of this circumstance,” said Khaavren. “And I thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

“You are welcome,” said Szurke laconically. “My lord Captain—or should I say brigadier?”

“Captain,” said Khaavren.

“Very good, then. My lord Captain, what should we do with these, ah, miscreants?”

“Miscreants?” said Khaavren.

“Brawlers in public places.”

Khaavren chuckled. “I admit, the notion of arresting them on this charge appeals to my humor. It is less humorous, but more reasonable, to arrest them on a charge of attacking an officer of the Phoenix Guard; a charge, by the way, for which the punishment is death. However—” He paused here and looked at the four Issola who remained in guard position, weapons out. To judge by the expression on their countenances, the statistic recited by Khaavren had no effect on them whatsoever. “However,” he continued, “for now, I should prefer to understand something of what this is all about.” He paused, turned his head toward the stage, and said, “Lady Saruchka, might I trouble you to step forward?”

Now, the reader must understand that Lady Saruchka was not only an Issola, but, moreover, a performer; hence it should come as no surprise to the reader that her reply, when it came, was delivered in a calm, even voice with no hint of agitation. “I will do so, my lord, but I should prefer to have a sword in my hand. Alas, I left mine in the pacing room.”

“But, my lady, if you had the sword, upon whom would you turn it?”

“Why, upon them, my lord. That is to say, my mother’s brother, his son, his daughter, and her husband.”

“As I had suspected,” murmured Khaavren.

The Easterner, who was close enough to Khaavren to hear, said, “As I had suspected you suspected.”

“Well,” said Khaavren. “Would you care to explain matters to me?”

“It is not my place to do so. Perhaps Lady Saruchka would, if you asked.”

The bard, hearing this, said, “Do you think I should, Vlad?”

“If you wish, Sara. It is entirely your decision.”

“Perhaps I will, then.”

As she finished speaking, she had placed herself next to Khaavren, and, holding her reed-pipe as if it were a weapon, she stared at the five Issola. “Or,” she added, “you could ask them. Hearing their opinion cannot fail to be amusing.”

Khaavren shrugged and, addressing the Issola whose arm had been wounded, said, “Would you care to offer an explanation?”

The Issola, who was ignoring the blood that continued to fall from his arm, said coolly, “My lord, what is it you wish to know?”

“In the first place, your name.”

“I am Dury.”

“Thank you, Lord Dury. Now, if you would be so kind as to explain, why did you attack this Easterner?”

“Why, what else could we do when he has dishonored our House and our family? You perceive, my lord, one cannot challenge an Easterner to a duel.”

“Oh, I understand that well enough.”

As this exchange took place, Khaavren observed a glance exchanged between the Easterner and the bard.

Khaavren cleared his throat. “Please forgive the brusqueness of an old soldier,” he said. “But I will to be clear about this. The Easterner and the bard are lovers, are they not?”

“Yes,” said Dury, at the same time the Easterner and the bard said, “No.”

“But,” added Szurke, “I would very much like to be.”

“And I,” added Saruchka, “am very nearly ready to consider it, out of annoyance if for no other reason.”

“How, you are not?” said Dury.

“I answered the captain, my lord uncle,” said Saruchka. “Had you asked, I would have declined to answer. With this in mind, I am certain you can understand my reluctance to give reassurances.”

“And yet,” said Dury, on whose face a certain degree of consternation was now visible, “it has seemed to me that the two of you have been seen together, and have met secretly, and—”

“Good my lord uncle,” said Saruchka, “if our meetings were secret, well, then we did not want them known. If we did not want them known, what would make you think I will now explain them?”

“For my part,” said Szurke, “I would be curious to hear the explanation from our brave captain.”

“From me?” said Khaavren.

“Why not?”

“You believe I arrived already understanding the circumstances that led us all here?”

“You pretend you do not?” asked the Easterner with a smile.

“Well, perhaps I have certain guesses.”

“I would admire to hear them.”

“Shall I tell you, then?”

“If you would. You perceive, we are all listening.”

“Then, if you insist—”

“To be sure, I do.”

“—I will explain.”

“Well?”

“This is it, then: The Lady Saruchka, who had already earned the ire of her family by playing social music, gave the appearance of having—how may I say this? ‘Taken up’ is I believe the expression, with an Easterner. That, in the event, they were wrong did not stop them from attempting to deliver a beating to the upstart Easterner. The Easterner, unaware of the reason behind the attack, or, indeed, the nature of it, assumed his life was in danger and reacted accordingly. This led to the death of—who, exactly?”

“My brother, Amlun,” said Dury.

“Amlun is dead?” said the bard.

“Yes,” said Dury.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Saruchka. “Vlad, that wasn’t nice.”

“Sorry,” said the Easterner.

“What remains to be answered,” said Khaavren, “is, if you two were not romantically involved, just what were you doing together?”

“That is a good question,” agreed Szurke.

“I’m glad you think so,” said Khaavren.

“Another good question is, whatever became of the mysterious artifact called the silver tiassa?”

“What is that?” asked Dury.

“I had expected that you wouldn’t know,” said Khaavren.

“Well, I am pleased to meet your expectations, but what is it?”