The morning after the events we have just witnessed, we will use our powers of apparent omniscience to look in on someone we have, hitherto, only seen briefly, that being Hadrice. The reader must understand that when we say “apparent omniscience” we are, in some measure, speaking ironically. Although it is true that in any history the author will quite naturally present the appearance of being able to see any and all of the incidents that are being displayed for the reader, and, moreover, to see any detail within them that the author may choose, in fact, as a moment’s thought will reveal, this is not the case. The process of historical study in all its painstaking assiduousness must still fail, not only to describe all of the facts, but to know them, for the simple reason that facts are infinite, and books—even though certain works by tedious, ignorant academics of the mystical persuasion may seem infinite when the reader is forced to wade through them like Jigrae Lavode through the Ramshorn Swamp and may seem unending—are nevertheless finite. Thus the task of the historian lies not only in gathering facts, and selecting them, but in drawing conclusions from them. This takes on an importance when the reader, or, worse, the historian, is unaware of the difference. Facts, as we all know, are abstractions from the world, in which we isolate a particular facet of an object to consider: for example, to state that the Orb measures nine inches in diameter is to state a fact which is gleaned by ignoring all of the complexities of the real and mystical, of the motion, the color, the makeup, except for one, which is, its diameter. To state that, for example, the mouth of some particular desert-born scholar is two inches in width is to abstract from all that the scholar is, the one matter of interest, that being the width of his mouth, which is also thus a fact. To say that the Orb would not fit within this mouth, or some other aperture we might consider, is not a fact, although it is true; rather, it is a conclusion drawn from facts. Its truth, of course, we could prove through experimentation, but this circumstance is beyond our point, which is, simply, that the historian works from facts and from conclusions drawn from facts, and that the reader must always bear in mind which are which. That one might make a casual and informal statement in which the word fact is used to mean a thing that is true (which in truth we have done often in this work, and will continue to do), is, naturally, perfectly acceptable in certain circumstances; we must insist, however, that the careful study of complex aspects of history does not qualify as one of those circumstances. That a student, or, still worse, someone who holds himself to be a scholar, might confuse these two concepts—the fact and the conclusion drawn from facts—would provide the explanation for any number of errors that would otherwise baffle us. Lest the reader fall into this error, then, we have taken this opportunity to make clear that, while a great deal of what passes before his eyes consists of facts, a great deal more consists of conclusions that, using the strict rules of deductive logic, have been drawn from those facts.
With this understood, then, we turn our attention to Hadrice. She very carefully studied the crumbling stone where the wall was breached, then interrogated the guard who was knocked senseless, the one of the two who had fought the bandits who was able to speak, and examined the cell door, and the cell itself, managing to reconstruct the entire affair with the accuracy of an historian recreating a battle from an examination of the ground, the reports of officers, the notes of observers, and the letters of survivors. Then, as she inspected the cell, looking in the dust to reconstruct where the prisoner had been taken by the arms and the legs, she suddenly knelt down, seeing a small scrap of paper.
She held it up next to her lantern, and saw that it was, evidently, a piece of a note, torn off, no doubt, in the commotion of the escape. It read: “mber 15, Highstep Road. He escaped from the Burning Isl.”
She took it upstairs. So, then, one of the escaped prisoners was in Adrilankha. It may be that Eremit was not in touch with this prisoner, but then again, it might be that he was, or this prisoner, at any rate, could have useful information.
She found the director in his room, where he spent most of his time, being afraid to set foot out of doors, and said, “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“Out,” she said.
The director chose not to press for more details, and so threw on a cloak and followed her. In ten minutes they were mounted, and riding through Adrilankha. Highstep Road, on the edge of the Little Deathgate area, was not an area to be entered lightly, but then, neither was Hadrice to be dealt with lightly.
They found number 15, a tall, thin building of red bricks, with a convenient hitching post in front of it. The buildings on either side were too far away to be useful for anyone trying to escape, and the street was wide enough that the coach-and-four on the other side was not in the way. Hadrice judged that the building was broken into flats, three on a side, two stories, perhaps another one or two in the basement. There was some worry about someone escaping out the back, but she was confident she would be able to catch anyone who tried to run.
She dismounted and said, “Come.”
“What—”
“We are going to look through this building until you recognize someone.”
“But who?”
Hadrice climbed up the brick stairway, opened the door, and took herself to the first flat on the right. She clapped, and heard a gasp next to her, while at the same time something very sharp pressed against the back of her neck.
Someone said, “Hold still, or I will sever your spine.” At that moment, the door at which she’d clapped opened and facing her were two individuals in gray outfits, gray masks, wearing badges of the House of the Iorich, and each was holding the massive sword that was the mark of the Kinship of the Mask.
Hadrice did not feel any special fear, but she was also aware that there were now at least three and more likely four weapons a few inches from her, and if she resisted, she would certainly die. Therefore, she remained still and waited.
One of the Kinsmen moved to the side, and she heard the director say, “Wait, wait, where are you taking me?”
She listened carefully, and heard three sets of footsteps walking away, one of which was certainly the director’s. With the blade she could still feel on the back of her neck, that meant there were two. She remained still, and waited.
After a short time, the pressure on the back of her neck eased. “All right, we are going to let—”
Hadrice dropped to the floor, drawing at the same time. With the same motion as the draw she cut the leg of the one in front of her, then rolled and came to her feet. The Kinsman was already closing with her, swinging his massive weapon in a cross-body motion. Hadrice continued forward, coming inside the swing while cutting at his shoulder. He cried out and his weapon fell to the ground, and without hesitating she ran out of the door.
She looked down the street and saw a coach rolling away. It was only then that she realized the horses were missing. She considered going inside and finishing the two Kinsmen, but then shrugged. She cleaned her sword, sheathed it, and began looking for a hack or a pedicab to take her back to the prince’s manor.
Livosha pulled on a certain rope outside of a certain gate, and waited. If memories of the last time she had pulled that rope, and of various events that had transpired since then went through her imagination, well, we do her the kindness to leave them there, trusting the reader will accept that even historical characters may, from time to time, have thoughts upon which we ought not to intrude. Presently, there came an elegant chaise drawn by a white horse. It pulled up, and an elderly man climbed out slowly, as if moving caused him pain. He shuffled up to the gate and opened his mouth to speak, but Livosha spoke first, saying, “My dear Biska, you should not still be doing this! You should be cared for in honorable retirement, with grandchildren climbing on your knees while you drink cups of mulled wine and eat raisin cake.”
The old man stared at her for some few moments, then his face broke into a smile. “Is it you, Livosha?”
“The same. Come, how are you, my friend?”
“As you say, I am old, old.”
“But, why are you not retired?”
“Alas, my mistress pretends that should I retire, I will be cut off without a penny and left to starve.”
“She is not remarkable for her kindness.”
“I will not dispute you, Livosha, though there is not another in the world to whom I would dare speak these words, save perhaps one other.”
“One other, my old friend?”
“A new servant, a stable girl. She has been very kind to me, sometimes easing the knots in my muscles and seeing to it I am kept warm.”
“I am glad you have this friend. In fact, I wish to see her, and thank her. Come, can you let me in?”
Biska frowned. “Have you business with her ladyship?”
“Oh, yes. Yes I do. I have such business with her ladyship as will astound you. But first I wish to meet this stable girl.”
“Very well, then I will open the gate.”
“And you will be right to do so. There, I will close it for you, and assist you into the chaise.”
“You are very kind, Livosha.”
“Bah. Someone must be, sometime, or what sort of world would we have?”
“A poor one, I fear.”
He drove her up to the front gate. “If the countess asks,” she said, “tell her that it is I, and I will be along to see her shortly. And when my friends arrive, please be so good as to let them in.”
“Friends?”
“The first two you will of course let in, but the third, I would take it as a kindness if you would show him in to see the countess.”
“I do not understand.”
“It will all be clear soon.”
She left the carriage and walked around back to the stables, where she saw a familiar figure polishing a bridle that did not require polishing, while, it seemed, having some sort of conversation with a dun mare.
“Hello, Jerin.”
The groom looked up, and her face broke into a smile. “My lady Livosha! I was told you would arrive! You see, I still have the knife you gave me.”
“A pleasure indeed, my dear Jerin. I trust you have been well?”
“Ah, the lady of the house is impossible, but it has only been a year, and one can stand anything for a year, is it not so?”
“Perhaps it is. And your work, is it done?”
“I have completed everything my lord Eremit—that is to say, Dust, or is it Daifan?—requested of me.”
“So much the better. How did he find you?”
“I do not know, m’lady. I was working, and he rode up and asked if I remembered him, and I said I did not, and he said he was Eremit, and I said that did not seem possible, and he gave me a sapphire to thank me for assisting you, my lady, although I insisted it wasn’t necessary, that I was honored to have been able to perform a small service for such a noble, beautiful, intelligent, talented, proud—”
“Yes, yes. I understand, good Jerin. And then?”
“He asked if I would like to perform a further service for you, and I said yes and he gave me instructions, and I turned in my notice, and here I am. Apropos, m’lady, how is your brother?”
“He was wounded some years ago, but has quite recovered.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“So, then, the papers?”
“I have kept them safe, in my loft above the stable.”
“Fetch them, then. And have you anything clean?”
“Why yes, my lady.”
“Change into it. We are about to have a conversation for which you will want to look your best.”
Half an hour later, they stood in the front hall. Biska shuffled toward them. “Livosha? Jerin? I perceive you have met.”
“Good Biska,” said Livosha. “As I have said, you are about to have visitors who must be admitted. When they arrive, please send them in at once. Apropos, where is the countess?”
“Her salon, Livosha. She is auditioning a trio of musicians for an entertainment she is planning. And yet, who—”
He was interrupted by the sound of the clapper. He looked at Livosha, then at the door, and shrugged and set off to his duty.
“Come, Jerin. It is time.”
Livosha and Jerin walked into the countess’s salon without clapping. There were, in fact, three musicians there, in the middle of a song. Livosha had intended to wait for the music to end, but as they came in, the countess frowned and gestured the musicians to silence. “What is the meaning—”
Livosha threw a small purse to the musicians and said, “Leave here.” Whether it was the purse or the manner in which she spoke, the musicians immediately packed up their instruments and left.
“Who are you,” said the countess, putting down her tea cup and rising to her feet, “to—”
“You are a fool,” said Livosha. “One can act the cruel, disdainful, arrogant, haughty, egotistical potentate who generates hatred and contempt every time she opens her mouth, or one can engage in highly rewarding criminal activity. But only a fool attempts to do both at once.”
“How dare—”
“Be quiet, Countess, and listen. I have been prevailed upon by a man who is kinder than I am to offer you a means of escaping utter ruin. But if you continue in this manner, I will not make the offer, and the Countess of Whitecrest will hear how Morganti weapons are making their way so freely to the Jhereg.”
The countess sat down. “I deny any—”
“I do not,” said Livosha, “care what you deny, and what you admit to.” She nodded to Jerin, who withdrew from a box she was carrying a set of papers and laid them, not without a certain flourish, upon the countess’s tea table.
“What are these?”
“The first set of documents is a carefully and laboriously compiled list of the sea captains, Jhereg, merchants, and traders showing exactly how you arranged for the acquisition and shipping of these illegal—”
“Illegal! There is no Empire!”
“That is true, and we will return to it in a moment. For now, I will merely observe that, difficult as this was to put together, it would have been impossible were it not for the fact that your household staff, and, indeed, everyone who has had any intercourse with you, hates you and wants to see you fall. Of course, the real credit must go to our good Jerin, who is skilled in finding things. Now this next set of documents describes all of your holdings, financial dealings, and caches of treasure, including copies of deeds and summaries of debts.”
“Why would you—”
“Hush. You may have a small amount to take with you, and you may keep your property outside Figshole. The rest is forfeit. If you decline this offer, there is this.” She opened the pouch at her side and removed a rolled-up parchment. “This authorizes me, as advocate to the Duchess of Briatha of the House of the Iorich, to have you taken up by the Kinship of the Mask and brought to her private dungeons, where she will then decide what to do with you.”
“She has no authority here!”
“You think she does not? Well, let us see if all agree with you.”
She clapped her hands, and two individuals came through the door, both them dressed in gray, with gray masks, massive swords slung over their backs.
“The Kinship!” cried the countess.
“Is this the one we are to escort?” said one.
“That is uncertain,” said Livosha. “Bide, please, and we will see. Now, Countess, do you sign?”
“It is unjust!”
“‘Discontentment with one’s place has never led to happiness,’” quoted Livosha. “‘Nor has begging. I despise beggars. Don’t you?’”
At that moment Biska arrived, bowed, and said, “My lord Emeris has arrived.”
“Him?” cried the countess. “Send him away!”
Biska started to turn, but Livosha said, “Biska, do please bring him here. We have been awaiting him.”
Biska looked at her, at the countess, then back at her. “Very well,” said the countess.
An instant later Emeris arrived, still bent, his eyes still bloodshot, but a look of curiosity on his countenance. He started to say something, but Livosha said, “My dear friend. Your aunt is just about to sign over to you her estate, her titles, her wealth, and her goods. While you cannot, as beneficiary, be a lawful witness, you can at least sign your own name beneath hers, to complete the transaction.”
Emeris looked from the countess to Livosha to the two Kinsmen standing cool and detached. His mouth worked, but no words came out.
Livosha walked over to the desk and found the gilded quill, dipped it, and returned, heedless of the ink that dripped onto the floor. She extended the quill and said, “Countess?”
With a sob, the countess accepted the quill.
Livosha smiled at Emeris and said, “I congratulate you on your new fortune, my lord. Kinsmen, we will not need your services, it seems, but please be so good as to escort the countess, ah, that is to say, this freewoman from the grounds before she can prevail upon the kind-hearted Emeris to let her stay, for, if she does, I must trouble myself to call you again. Come, Jerin. I believe we are finished here.”