72: THE NAMES OF THEIR FATHERS

(Kihrin’s story)

We randomly picked a tavern called the Four Winds, decorated with a wooden placard out front carved with a chrysanthemum flower—the Lord of Little Houses’ symbol. The next part was embarrassingly easy.

We went to the lavatory.

The “little house” in question was an add-on to the main tavern. The main room included several comfortable-looking benches in case a line for the restroom formed, as well as an altar to the man himself and a priest on hand to deal with special cases. A running fountain sat before the altar, where people were encouraged to wash their hands before leaving. In at least a few cases, that might have been the closest thing some of these folks had come to an actual bath in months.

From the main room, a dozen small doors led to individual chambers, all comfortable, sweet smelling, and heated against the cold. I didn’t think the private rooms connected to Kishna-Farriga’s sewers—from the look of the toilet, it seemed more likely the waste was being destroyed.

In each room sat another small altar, where coins could be deposited should the user feel any sudden need for prayer. One wall was covered with a layer of slate, with pieces of chalk kept at the ready for the sharing of “profound” thoughts.

I had to admit, it was rather nice.

Use of a little house was free, but supplicants were encouraged to pray, and I assumed more complicated digestive issues required a monetary donation. If the tavern owner paid a stipend to host the mini-temple (which I could easily see being the case), then I had to imagine the Lord of Little Houses and his priests were sitting on a sizable stack of metal.

After paying my respects, as it were, both Thurvishar and I approached the acolyte on duty, who smiled at us and bowed with arms crossed over each other.

“How may I make you more comfortable?”

Thurvishar cleared his throat to suggest absolutely nothing about this would make him comfortable. “We’d like to speak with Lord Khital himself.”

That smile froze. “Oh, I’m afraid that’s quite impossible.”

I sighed and stretched, working through the crick in my neck. “How big a donation do you need?”

“It’s not just a matter of—” The priest paused and looked us over again. “How big a donation can you give?”

Thurvishar reached into his fur-lined coat, brought out a small pouch, and slowly overturned the contents into a fountain. A small rain of diamonds fell from his hand.

Rather, they looked like diamonds, and given Thurvishar had planned for this, they were probably genuine.¹ It’s good to be a Quuros high lord.

“Oh, I see,” the man said. “That’s different.”

I grinned at him, then sat down on a bench, uncovered Sorrow, and started to play.

I figured I might as well pass the time while the priest set up the interview. Funnily enough, the people passing into the little houses from the tavern didn’t seem to find my presence unusual, although a few people thanked the priest for that extra touch.

I had a few tips thrown my way too.

While I played and Thurvishar waited patiently, the priest went to the altar. He closed his eyes. He chanted softly. He lit incense.

And finally, he walked back to us.

“One of you,” the priest said, “may meet with my lord and present your case. Just one.”

Thurvishar turned to me.

“Oh no,” I said. “I don’t know the man we’re trying to find. You do. You’ll be able to describe him.”

Thurvishar sighed. “Very well.” He gestured toward the doors. “In one of those?”

“The middle one,” the priest replied, “but you must be sanctified first.” He opened up a low cabinet set against one wall and pulled out a thin cloth robe.

“Seriously?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Oh yes,” the priest said. “Nothing but yourself and your modesty.” He held out the robe to Thurvishar. “You may choose to change in one of the private rooms if you so desire—not the middle room—and may then give your belongings to me for safekeeping. Or to your friend. Whichever you prefer.”

Thurvishar looked annoyed, but he took the robe from the priest’s hand and walked into a free room. A short time later, he walked back out again, and handed his clothing and shoes to me. On top of the pile sat the two intaglio ruby rings he’d brought with him.

He nodded to the pile. “If I don’t come back out in a reasonable time, you know what to do.”

I nodded while I hoped my idea about what to do matched his. Because my idea would be to call in the gods and the empress of Quur, not necessarily in that order. I had a fleeting, wistful regret Senera and Xivan weren’t our allies. Urthaenriel would have been so useful if anything went wrong.

Thurvishar walked into the indicated cell and closed the door behind him.

I sat back down, smiling thinly at the attending priest. The man gave me a nervous nod in return and then went back to dealing with customers, or worshippers, or whatever they were. No one seemed particularly keen to discuss their constipation or whatever loudly, so a lot of emphatic whispering occurred.

I played a few more songs before my fingertips protested. So then I put away Sorrow and sat there with Thurvishar’s clothes in my lap. Because I was bored, I picked up one of the intaglio rings and looked at it. Not the ring that was my size—that one had in fact been made for me, which is why Thurvishar wore it on his pinkie finger. No, the second ring. The one that had belonged to Thurvishar’s father, Emperor Sandus.

It looked like all the others. Just like the one my adoptive father, Surdyeh, had owned. They all had a curious identical sameness to them, the uniformity that made me certain magic had been used to create them.

Then I looked inside the ring band and found something different. Inscribed writing, written in something other than Guarem. This was all angles and hard edges, a script that seemed tailored for carving onto stone or inscribing into metal.

But it was a language I could read, anyway, the knowledge of it returning in a flash of understanding.

It was a name. Sandus’s name. Although that was a guess, since the voras custom had always been to form a contraction of the familiar name and surname.

“Hell,” I whispered. “The children will not know the names of their fathers.”

“What was that?” Thurvishar asked.

I hadn’t heard him return, and I looked up in surprise. He seemed fine. Same robe, same vaguely embarrassed expression. He pointed toward the pile.

“Did you find out what we need?” I asked as I handed him his clothing back.

“Yes,” he said. “I have a city. Not more than that, but if we hurry, we might be able to find him before he moves on.”

I picked up the harp. “That’s great.”

Thurvishar gave me a slightly concerned look before he left to change. When he returned, the look hadn’t significantly faded.

“Let’s go outside,” I suggested.

“It’s cold outside,” he said.

“Not outside into the snow. Outside into the tavern. It looked friendly enough.”

Thurvishar again studied me, then nodded. We found a space at the bar, and I ordered the strongest drink they had, which turned out to be an anise-flavored milky substance called sejin, which was served warm. I bought a bottle with the coins I’d won from earlier and poured us both a cup. I didn’t touch mine.

“What’s wrong?” he said. “You’ve closed yourself off. Why are you blocking me?”

“Did you ever look inside that ring of your father’s?”

Thurvishar glanced down at his hands. “Of course. It has an inscription, but I haven’t been able to—” He looked back up. “You know what it says, don’t you?”

“It’s your father’s name,” I told him. “Your father’s real name.”

“What? I know my father’s real name.” Thurvishar’s expression grew worried. “If you’re about to tell me that Sandus wasn’t my real father…”

“No, no,” I said quickly. “Your father was Sandus. Not at all in question. Although to be fair, I am only assuming that name inside the ring is your father’s. It’s just that the voras custom…”

“Spit it out, would you?”

“For Sand’arric,” I told him. “That’s what it says. The ring is inscribed in a very old voras alphabet that says, ‘For Sand’arric.’ You weren’t able to translate it?”

The look on his face said no.

Thurvishar wasn’t stupid. I watched as all the pieces fell together for him. He reached for his drink with shaking fingers.

“Remember when you, Qown, and I were under Lake Jorat,” I said, “and Qown mentioned how he’d learned Relos Var had never moved against Gadrith because Gadrith owned something important to him? Something Gadrith was using as leverage? And we all assumed it was an artifact or blackmail evidence?”

“But it was me,” Thurvishar said numbly. “Gadrith was using me.” He drank a large swallow and made a face.

“It would fit.” I sipped at my glass. It wasn’t half-bad, assuming one liked licorice. Best of all, I suspected it was strong enough to knock out a water buffalo. And hell, I needed a drink too. “I always assumed my brother couldn’t have children because, you know, dragon, but, uh, maybe not. If your father, Sandus, was his son…”

Thurvishar made a noise deep in the back of his throat and topped off his glass.

“If you’re Relos Var’s grandson,” I continued, “it would explain why he put up with Gadrith, who had your gaesh. It also explains why Gadrith didn’t kill you. Why he kept you around instead of eating you. Even if you’d never learned a single spell, you’d have been leverage.”

Thurvishar snorted. “Be realistic, Kihrin. This is Relos Var. If I’d never learned a single spell, he wouldn’t have cared.”

I winced. “Far be it from me to defend the man, but I don’t think that’s true.”

He gave me an incredulous stare. “He murdered you.”

I shrugged and finished off my glass before pouring another one. “People are complicated. Maybe if Relos Var had needed to kill Gadrith, he’d have done so, and damn the consequences. It’s also possible that he loved your father and by extension loves you. But it’s certainly interesting to note how he’s left you completely alone, isn’t it? He never tried to recruit you. No offers to join his righteous crusade. I don’t know what that means.”² I frowned at the ring back on his finger. “Can I see that?”

Thurvishar took it off as though it was red hot and slid it across the table.

I looked at the inscription again. Although legible, it wasn’t neatly inscribed. And my brother was meticulous. His lettering would be perfect. “Relos Var didn’t write this. Although whoever did was voras. That script hasn’t been in use for millennia.” I pushed the ring toward him. “Give me the other one. That way we each have one if we’re separated.”

“Good idea.” He tossed me the ring, which I turned invisible the moment it was on my finger. “Do you think Sandus knew?” Thurvishar mused before downing another glass. He didn’t seem to be a fan of the taste and so was drinking it as quickly as possible.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “But whoever made this knew. And whoever made this is also behind the Gryphon Men, which means whoever made this is the one responsible for me ending up with Surdyeh in the Lower Circle.” I snorted. “Not Relos Var. I mean, let’s be real here. Can you honestly see Relos Var putting me—putting anyone—in a brothel for safekeeping? Shit, he’d have done this properly. I would have grown up on a farm in Eamithon.”

“Huh.” He poured himself another glass.

I slammed my hand on the bar several times to catch the innkeeper’s attention. “My friend, do you have rooms for let?”

He looked at me like I was speaking another language. I sighed to myself as I remembered I’d spoken to the other tavern keep the first time. So I was speaking another language.

The second man ushered over the first, who spoke Guarem. “Want another bottle?”

“Do you have rooms for the night?” I pushed money forward.

I didn’t plan on getting pass-out drunk—not in a place where we barely understood the language, had no friends, and there was a huge bounty on my head—but I didn’t think we were in any condition to safely open magic portals either. That meant staying there for the night.

“Uh, yes, we have an open room in the back for sailors who don’t want to walk back to their ship. Two pira a night each. There are footlockers for your valuables.” He gave the harp, which clearly wouldn’t fit in any size footlocker, an uneasy eye.

I counted out the remainder of my money and pushed over the entire pile. “Good. We’ll take the whole room. Oh, and now that you mention it, yeah. Another bottle of that sejin.”

When the man left, I turned back to Thurvishar.

He topped off both our glasses. “He must have known.”

“If Sandus thought you were dead, you can’t be upset he never told you about your grandfather,” I pointed out. “It does pretty strongly imply he wasn’t working with Relos Var. Because I just can’t imagine Var wouldn’t have said anything to Sandus about you if they were on speaking terms.”

“True.” Thurvishar looked a bit glassy-eyed. “Even if Sandus knew the man was his father, it didn’t mean he liked him.”

“No. No, it didn’t.” I felt that right in my chest, an aching burn as I remembered Surdyeh and Therin. I’d been starting to like Therin there at the end.

Apparently, he’d been proud of me. Go figure.

“We’ll get him back,” Thurvishar said, who was either pretty good at mind reading even when I was shutting him out or I was more drunk than I realized. “Thaena said she’d Return him.”

“Yeah, she did.” I made a face. “But I don’t trust Thaena anymore. Apparently, I never could.”

Thurvishar sipped at his glass. “No, I suppose not.” He looked at the milky liquor. “You know, after half a bottle, this starts to grow on you.”

I refilled my glass. “I bet by the time we’re finished, we’ll think this is the best stuff ever.” I studied him sideways. “So where are we going next?”

“Bahl-Nimian,” Thurvishar replied. “It’s toward the mountains.”

“Is it nice?”

Thurvishar laughed. “Oh no. It’s exactly the opposite of nice.”