Evening was just setting in when Riffetra heard the sound of the clappers he had installed below. He frowned, because it had been so long since he had heard them, that he didn’t realize they were still functional. Then he wondered if there was some sort of mistake. He waited, and a few minutes later the clap was repeated.
He shrugged and went down the stairs. He was no longer a young man, which fact was impressed upon him as he noticed how long it took—for we are, by nature, more aware of the passing of time when we know that someone is waiting for us. At last he reached the bottom, pulled open the door to the common room, and then worked the bolt on the door to the outside. At last he threw it open, and felt his jaw drop.
Outside the door was the most remarkable figure he had ever seen: a man clothed, except for a red jewel, entirely in white from head to foot, even to his boots, so he seemed to shimmer in the fading light.
“Riffetra,” said the man, his voice low and melodic. “Would you permit me to come in and exchange two words with you?”
After a moment to recover himself, he said, “Who are you?”
“My name is Dust, and I give you my word, I come as a friend.”
“Well,” said Riffetra, “it is so long since I’ve had a friend, I no longer quite know what to do with one. But come in. The ale and the pilsner are long sour, but there may be a bottle of wine that is still good.”
“There is no need,” said Dust. “I brought a bottle.”
“Bringing a bottle of wine to an inn? Well, that tells us how things have been, does it not?”
They went inside and Riffetra lit a lamp. Old habits came back, and so he wouldn’t permit Dust to sit until he had wiped off the chairs and the table, and cleaned a pair of cups. He poured coals for the wine brazier, feeling a certain nostalgia for the thousand thousand times he had done so in the past. Then he stopped and said, “I have no ice.”
“Break the neck.”
“Very well,” he said. As a host, he was skilled at breaking the necks of wine bottles when, for some reason or another, the tongs couldn’t be used; but, as a host, he disliked doing so. He managed it cleanly, however, and brought the bottle back, setting it before the man in white, who gestured for him to sit.
When they were seated, Dust poured the wine. Riffetra tasted it, and said, “This is quite remarkable.”
“Thank you. It is from my own vineyards.”
“Ah, you are a wine grower!”
“No, but I bought some good wine land in near Lake Chen, and hired a vintner. It is remarkable what one can do with money.”
“Is it, my lord?”
“Not my lord. Just Dust.”
“An unusual name.”
“I get through small openings, and you can never be entirely rid of me, and sometimes I can keep you from breathing.”
“Well,” said Riffetra, feeling suddenly uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry, my friend,” said Dust, his voice suddenly warm. “You have nothing to fear from me. On the contrary, you risked your life to perform a service for someone I care deeply about, and I am grateful.”
Riffetra frowned. “I cannot imagine what you mean, my—, Dust.”
“No? You cannot? Well. I know pirates, my good Riffetra, and I know Jhereg. And I know Orca, and I know Teckla. I give them money, and they tell me things, and I remember what they tell me. After all, what is dust? It is the name we give to all the small particles that come from everything and everywhere; we never know whence came each speck, nor whither each goes. Dust can be moved from place to place, but never destroyed. It doesn’t have memory, you see, it is memory. So you may not remember this service you have done, but I am Dust, I remember, and that is why I am giving you this.”
As he made this remarkable speech, he pulled out a rolled scroll and handed it over.
“What is this?” said Riffetra.
“It is the Wriggling Dolphin. You own it again. And here—” He set a purse on the table. “This should be enough to buy supplies and get it running again. The custom will be poor for a while, but I think that, soon, Wetrock will prosper again. So repaint your sign, oil your woodwork, polish your cups.”
“My lord!”
“Just Dust. And, if you would, there is a small service you might do for me. To be clear, my good Riffetra, there is, in this case, no condition. All that I have given is yours whatever you decide. However, knowing that you have a good heart, a kindness for those I have a kindness for, and a resentment of injustice, I think that, after I have explained what I wish, you will readily agree.”
Riffetra opened the purse and stared at the bright imperials inside, and he unrolled the scroll, and read it, then read it again, and yet again. He set it down, trying to control the trembling in his hands and the pounding in his heart.
“I don’t care what it is,” he said. “I will do anything you wish.”
The city of Aussiar in the Zerika’s Point region had changed considerably since the fall of the Empire. Wooden structures, built with the timber that grew so plentifully outside of the city to the north and west, had burned or collapsed or simply fallen apart, and few had been rebuilt. Much of the economy, that is to say, that which was based on pearls and iron, had either collapsed or at least been crippled, and many artisans and tradesmen had moved away, as well as some of those who supply them. Livosha could see the difference as she moved through streets that had once been crowded, but were now, if not deserted, at least more easily navigable.
She stopped and spoke to an elderly Teckla woman. Livosha had the fanciful thought that this woman might be same Teckla her brother had spoken to six hundred years before, but there was no way to know (nor, indeed, is there any way for the author to know, yet it is pleasant to think she is right, for it provides a sort symmetry or correspondence that, although generally lacking in history, is an agreeable feature in works of art). Livosha (who, we should add, was on foot on this occasion), said, “Your pardon, auntie, but where can I find Gystralan the money-lender?”
The woman stopped, made an obeisance, and said, “Rocksalt Lane, my lady, on the north side next to the luthier.”
Livosha handed her a coin, saying, “I hope you will do me the honor to take this and use it to drink my health.”
The Teckla smiled, accepted the coin, and bowed. “Then that I will do, and the blessing of Barlen go with you on this day. Ah, and before I carry out this request with which you have not only honored me but also provided the means, I will add that Rocksalt Lane can be found by following this street to Imperial, turning there to the right, and continuing for only a short distance, until you see a narrow unpaved street winding to your left. That is Rocksalt.” With this, she bowed once more and continued on her way.
As the reader is already familiar with the process of following a Teckla’s directions and arriving at a certain destination, having observed them on our previous visit to Aussiar, we do not see a need to take up the reader’s time by repeating them, as it is well known that repetition, or redundancy, or iteration, can by its nature, indeed, by its very definition, do nothing to advance understanding, and, hence, has no valid place in any work that purports to further human knowledge, however this ingemination or replication is presented.
She found, then, a low structure of brick that seemed in remarkably good repair compared to those around it. She continued past it to an empty lot a short distance further down, a lot that, to judge from the wheel ruts and other impressions in the ground, occasionally served as a market. There were a few tree stumps here and there that had been smoothed off to serve as chairs. She sat in one and waited.
Two hours passed, then three, then four, and still she waited. The light began to fail and a chill set in, and just as she was noticing this and wishing her cloak were heavier, the door she was watching opened and a man came out. Though she only had a glimpse of his face, it was enough to recognize him as Gystralan even with the extra years. He turned and walked down the street away from her. When he was out of sight, she came back. She was about to clap, but noticed a sign nailed to the door that said, “Please walk in,” so, without hesitation, she did so.
At a small desk with a few candles, a figure was hunched over. His pen made a steady scratch scratch scratch over paper as he worked, not even looking up when the door opened.
Livosha cleared her throat.
“Oh I beg your pardon, my lady,” said the Tsalmoth, standing suddenly. “I had thought…” He coughed in embarrassment. “How may I serve you? Alas, my master—”
“Has left. When the door opened you thought he had returned, and dared not look up lest he scorch you with his tongue.”
“And his stick, my lady. How may I—” He stopped and squinted. His eyes seemed to be permanently red, and there was a bow to his shoulders that had not been there before. “Your pardon, my lady. Do I know you?”
“Perhaps you do. At all events, I know you. It is hard to forget a man who saved my life.”
“Saved your … my lady, I do not understand what it is you do me the honor of telling me.”
“No? Well, that is unimportant.”
“Yet—”
“I am here on business.”
“As I have said, my lady, my master has left.”
“My business is with you.”
“How with me?”
“Exactly.”
“But, what business could you have with me?”
“I must make a payment on a debt, my dear Emeris.”
“Ah, well, that is different. I will accept the payment in my master’s name, and record—”
“But my dear Emeris, the debt is not owed to him, it is owed to you.”
“My lady, that is impossible.”
“Not in the least.” She pulled her head back and bowed. “I am Livosha, daughter of Cerwin, and if it were not for you, I would be dead now.”
Emeris sat down, apparently without deciding to, and his mouth fell open. Livosha smiled. “Come, my friend. I am here to thank you, and to give you a commission.”
“A commission?”
“First, a partial payment.” She tossed a purse onto the desk, pleased at the way Emeris’s eyes widened at the agreeable, heavy thump it made.
“There will be plenty there to see you safely to Candletown.”
“Candletown, Lady Livosha?”
“Yes. In Candletown, I repay the rest of my debt to you.”
As this conversation was taking place, the one called Gystralan was continuing his walk home, reflecting on how his enterprises seemed, in spite of the interruption caused by the fall of the Empire, to be gradually improving. It had been difficult for a while; in fact, if he hadn’t had the foresight to take one particular calculated gamble, as he thought of it, which permitted him to quickly accumulate a great deal of capital, he might not have weathered the storm. But he had, and now, Empire or not, things were looking up. Soon he might have to hire an assistant. That is to say, a second assistant, unless he could manage to get more work from the Tsalmoth. Perhaps he could; things were so difficult right now, that the threat of being sacked could do wonders. Yes, perhaps he should try.
He reached his house, opened the door, stepped inside, and turned around to find something sharp at his throat, which, upon examination, proved to be a long piece of steel, at the other end of which was a man in the gray and black of the Jhereg, who gave no overt indications of having a sympathetic attitude.
“What—”
“Please do me the honor of wearing this, my dear Gystralan.”
“Who are you?”
“Call me Daifan.”
“What is that?”
“A hood. If you would be so kind as to put it on.” He prodded a little with the point of the sword.
“I can’t see.”
“You perceive, if I had wanted you to see, I wouldn’t have had you put on the hood.”
“And yet—”
“Now turn around, and put your hands behind your back.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Tie them.”
“But, if I don’t want my hands tied?”
“I will tie them anyway, unless you resist.”
“And if I resist?”
“Then I will push a certain number of inches of good Aussiar steel up under your chin and into your brain, which, I give you my word, will make it more difficult for you to calculate interest.”
“Very well, here they are.”
“There, it is done.”
“Well, what next?”
“Next we will sit here, like good companions, for a short length of time, at the end of which a coach will arrive. We will get into the coach and go for a long ride.”
“To where?”
“A ship.”
“And then?”
“Ah, if I were to tell you everything, you wouldn’t be surprised, and that would hardly do after I’ve gone to all of this work for your entertainment.”
“I have money.”
“That you do, my dear Gystralan.”
“I could pay you.”
“Well, first I will perform the service, afterward you can decide if you wish to pay me. Ah, and there is the sound of the wagon. Come, I will guide you carefully.”
Gystralan sighed and went along.
A small vessel, that is to say, a boat with a single mast and two sails, arrived in the harbor at Adrilankha during the last hours of the day. Her crew consisted of a captain and a mate, and she carried seven passengers. As the vessel approached one of the long piers with which the harbor was then supplied, as there was at the time no division among fishing boats, sailing ships, and yachts, the captain, whom the reader will recognize as the pirate known as Sheen, spoke to one of the passengers, saying, “You perceive, should I be recognized, well, you may succeed in your mission and yet have no way to escape, for there are a certain number of people in this city who would love to see me strapped to the executioner’s star, and will be happy to assist in this endeavor.”
“Well,” said the passenger, who was, in fact, none other than Alishka. “And then?”
“I will, therefore, remain belowdecks until you return, and thus will be unable to assist.”
“I understand,” said Alishka. “The seven of us will, I hope, manage.”
“You can find it? This is a large city, and I am told it can be hard to find one’s way around.”
“I can ask directions.”
“Ah,” said Sheen. “You are pleased to jest.”
Alishka shrugged. “Dust gave me precise instructions, as well as certain devices he pretends will enable me to complete the mission, and I have allowed extra time. You perceive, I am not worried about becoming lost on the way there; I am worried about becoming lost on the way back, as that would be embarrassing.”
“I should hate for you to be embarrassed. We are, after all, in much the same line of work, although the highways I work tend to be wetter.”
“So then, I will go slowly on my way there, making notes, so that, above all, the return will go smoothly.”
“And once you have returned?”
“Perhaps all we be well, but perhaps we will be pursued, so it would be best if we were ready to leave on an instant.”
“I promise you, we will be.”
“Very good, then. I see that we have arrived.”
“If you will be permit me to tie us up, well, you can be off.”
“Then we will go.”
“Best of luck to you.”
“I will see you soon, Captain Sheen.”
The seven of them stepped onto the pier and began walking in single file toward the city. Sheen watched their progress for a short time, although he could not, in all honesty, have said why. There were several children playing Cats Will Scamper around some of the piles of cargo, and, as he watched, one of them stopped and waved at him. He smiled, as one does, and waved back, after which he turned back to his mate.
“Come,” said Sheen. “Let us go below. As there is nothing else to do for some hours, we will sleep.”
“This had better work,” said Fagry.
Alishka heard the thud as Doro hit him. This was, Alishka reflected, the seventh or eighth time he had made this observation, and whereas it had been too obvious to require expression the first time, the seventh or eighth was quite sufficient. The first time, Alishka had replied, saying, “Dust says it will work; do you doubt him?” There had been no answer from Fagry, but then there had begun to be regular repetitions. She was inclined to forgive him, because his job tonight was the hardest, and because she did have doubts of her own.
Alishka kept her doubts to herself, which doubts, in fact, were not related to Dust’s promise, for she had no question on that score—if Dust said it would work, then it would work—but rather on her own band. She missed Nef, who had fallen to his death from a cliff near Creigshead, for his steady sword, sharp ears, and dry wit, not to mention his singing voice. She missed Liniace, who had retired from the life to seek her fortune in the east, for her calming presence. Now they were only seven, and, if truth be told, not all of them were as young they were: Branf, in particular, was slowing down.
But that was her band, and now was too late to worry. She had agreed to do what was asked, and they were now huddled against a wall at night, wearing black, the light-skinned among them with faces blacked, weapons blacked, waiting either until the moment it was time to move, or until they were discovered and must abandon the plan and try to escape with their lives. Alishka hoped for the former; she did not wish to disappoint Dust.
When it happened at last, they quite nearly missed it; there was no flash of light, no explosion, almost nothing at all, in fact, except a quiet pop. Alishka’s first thought, when she realized it had occurred at all, was that it had failed, but then she saw a crack appear in the block at her feet, and spread, and continue spreading until, in what seemed to be hardly more than a minute, the entire block had crumbled to nothing, leaving a hole in the wall big enough for a man to fit through.
“Doro,” she whispered.
Doro nodded, drew a knife, and slid through the opening. An instant later she whispered back, “It is good, Alishka.”
“Kitescu,”
He nodded and, without a word, followed Doro in. He would wait there while Doro would move further in, find the lone guard who should be on duty at the intersection, ensure his silence with a sharp blow to the head if possible or a knife to the throat if necessary, and come back. In the meantime, Alishka kept sending the others in, until everyone except she and Fagry had gone into the hole.
She turned to Fagry and said softly, “You know your job?”
He nodded. “I will sit here, as if drunk, my back covering the hole. When you return, either successfully or because of something going wrong, I will assist you, one at a time, out of the hole. If I am disturbed while waiting for you, I will quell the disturbance.”
Alishka nodded, gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, and slipped down the hole. She found herself in a long corridor with the rest of her band. She moved past them and took out the lightstick, rubbing it against the stone walls next to her until its soft glow began. At that moment, Doro returned and nodded.
Alishka led them forward. Just past the intersection they saw the guard, who was bound, gagged, and also appeared unconscious: Doro, we perceive, was that sort of individual whose boots are held on with straps over the lacings. She left Kitescu there both to guard and to give warning in case of trouble and continued, turning right at the intersection.
The doorway yielded to the key supplied by Livosha’s brother, who was now recovering, although, having come so close to death, he was still weak. They were now in a torture chamber, filled with the usual implements of that grim and barbaric work, but it was unoccupied. This was, reflected Alishka, both good and bad; good because it increased their chances of success with the mission, bad because, ever since she had been questioned at the age of one hundred and ten about the name of her companion after her first theft, she had taken an especial delight in slaughtering those who used such implements. She did not examine the implements closely, therefore neither will we.
Immediately beyond this room were the cells.
“Jiscava and Cho,” she said.
The two named went to the end of the corridor. Cho quickly looked through the barred door, then turned back to Alishka and nodded, then, along with Jiscava, took up a position on either side of the door. They each drew their sword and waited.
Alishka led the other two, Doro and Branf, to the third cell on the right-hand side. She withdrew the other key she’d been given and tried it. It went into the lock but wouldn’t turn, which Livosha’s brother, whose name she could not quite recall, had said might happen.
Well then, there was nothing for it. She removed the key and took out a tube filled with a composition Dust had made that included, Dust claimed, metals taken from minerals mined in Wetrock. She poured the powder into the keyhole and whispered, “Look away, everyone. And Jiscava and Cho, be ready.”
She held the lightstick against the lock and waited. Dust had warned her it could take time, but, it must be said, it seemed to Alishka as if dawn would come before anything happened. And then there was the hiss she’d been told of, and she barely managed to turn her eyes away before such a brightness filled the room that she could see it through her tightly closed eyes.
There were voices from down the hall, but that was not her affair; she opened her eyes, turned, and kicked the cell door open. Two strides, and there he was, withered, haggard, but, from the description she’d been given, it was him.
“Can you walk?” she said.
“I’m blind!”
“It will pass. Doro, Branf.”
They came forward. Branf took his arms, Doro his legs, and they carried him out of the cell even as the door into the area opened. Jiscava and Cho struck, and it was over.
Perhaps no alarm had been given, but it would be a mistake to count on it, therefore, time was now all that mattered. Doro and Branf led the way, with Jiscava and Cho behind them; Alishka herself took the rearguard.
Kitescu fell in before her, and they reached the exit where Fagry waited, Alishka’s ears straining to hear sounds of pursuit. The prisoner was pushed through, with Fagry’s strong arms doing most of the work, he then helped the others through one at a time, and last of all Alishka.
“Come,” she said. “To the harbor, the boat awaits.”
“I think I can walk a little,” said the prisoner, “though I still cannot see.”
They put him on his feet, but he fell over at once. Alishka cursed, and they picked him up again. Just to be sure, she said, “You are the artist called Sajen?”
“I am,” he said. “And, the gods, you have rescued me from Prince Traanzo’s dungeons!”
Alishka shrugged. “So much the worse for you.”
They continued down toward the harbor where the pirate would see them to safety.