“Can you come to me?”
He didn’t say anything, but there was a flutter of wings, and Rocza landed on my left shoulder, Loiosh on my right. I felt a little better for a moment, until I realized that I was picking up feelings of panic from Rocza. If Rocza was scared, I was scared.
“Loiosh, what is it?”
“Fighting ....”
He wobbled on my shoulder, and gripped it harder. I tried to think to Rocza, to ask her what was going on, but I didn’t sense that she understood. I felt her fear and confusion, an echo of my own. I touched Lady Teldra’s hilt. Then I must have drawn her, because she was in my hand, and I was looking around the empty street. A tingling—not unlike what I used to feel from Spellbreaker—ran up my wrist, my arm, my shoulder, to—
“Thanks, Boss. That helped. I’m okay now.”
“What helped? What did what? What happened?”
“Someone tried to find me.”
“And you stopped him? How?”
“I don’t know.”
“I didn’t know you could do that.”
“Neither did I. And I almost couldn’t.”
“Can you tell me anything about what sort of spell it was?”
“You mean, on account of I know so much about magic?”
“Loiosh, you know how witchcraft feels.”
“Well, it wasn’t that.”
“Okay.”
“... Exactly.”
I sighed.
“It’s hard to describe, Boss. It felt a little like that, but—”
“Okay. Back to the room.”
I sheathed Lady Teldra as Loiosh and Rocza launched themselves into the air again. I took a couple of steps, then stopped; I knew what I wanted to do. I dug out a stub of pencil and scrap of paper, and scribbled out a note.
“Loiosh.”
He landed on my shoulder and accepted the paper.
“Get this where it needs to be.”
“Then what?”
“Then you act as guide.”
I could feel some objections forming in my familiar’s mind, but he left them unsaid, and just launched himself into the air. Rocza remained in the area, keeping a lookout for me. I wandered around a bit, as I figured it would take Loiosh a couple of hours.
I made it back to the room without incident. By the time I got there, Loiosh had completed his mission, as evidenced by the fellow floating cross-legged about six inches off the floor. I took just a second to close my eyes. The preliminaries were over; the meal was about to begin.
“Hello, Daymar,” I said. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.” 7. Fish
There is a god named Trout who dwells in the Halls of Judgment. I know he’s there, because I’ve seen him, but that’s another story. In truth, I know very little about him, except that the way his name is pronounced and the symbols used to represent those sounds are identical to the fish.
No gods were brought to the table at Valabar’s; just fish. But then, there are those who have claimed that tasting the fish is akin to communing with the gods. On reflection, that can’t be true. I’ve communed with the gods, and eating the trout atValabar’s is a much richer, more rewarding, and more enlightening experience.
And certainly more pleasant.
I don’t know any of the rituals that accompany the worship of the god named Trout, but the ritual for the fish at Valabar’s begins with a young man who unobtrusively removes your soup bowl, then returns a moment later and sets down a white plate with a tiny blue flower painted on the edge that he sets away from you. When you see that plate, there is at once a slight quickening of the pulse; you don’t yet know what sort of fish will be showing up, but the plate tells you: This is serious, it’s time to get to work.
Next, after an interminable wait of perhaps half a minute, Mihi hows up holding a silver platter in his left hand and two serving spoons in his right. On the platter are two large fish and several spears of goslingroot.
Telnan looked curious. I sat back and smiled. Mihi winked at me, which was not part of the ritual, but that was okay.
“Freshwater trout,” announced Mihi, “from the Adrilankha River, stuffed with carrot slivers, fresh rosemary, salt, crushed black pepper, a sprinkling of powdered Eastern red pepper, minced garlic, and sliced lemon wedges. Accompanied by fresh goslingroot, quick-steamed in lemon butter.”
Then, wielding the serving spoons like tongs, he reverently delivered some fish and vegetable onto our plates.
I reverently started eating.
I can’t tell you a lot about the trout, other than what Mihi said, except that Mr. Valabar had once let slip that it was double-wrapped in a heat-resistant parchment so that it was steam that actually cooked it. If I knew more, I’d make it myself, as best I could. A great deal of the art of Valabar’s, of course, consisted in putting astonishing amounts of effort into making sure that each ingredient was the freshest, most perfect that could be found. It’s all in the details, just like assassination. Though with a good fish, more is at stake.
“If you’re going to be a hero,” I said, “I imagine it’s important to pay attention to the details.”
“Hmmm?” said Telnan.
“Uh, nothing. I was just thinking aloud.”
“Oh. This is really good.”
“Yes.”
“The most important thing about heroics is preparation.”
“Hmmm?”
He swallowed and said, “If you’re going to march into a place horribly outnumbered, the big thing is to work yourself into a state where you don’t mind dying, but can work to prevent it, and to have all of your spells prepared in your mind, and to make sure, well, that everything youcan do is done and ready. It’s the preparation they talk about. Is that what you meant by heroics?”
I nodded, even though I hadn’t meant much of anything. But my mind chewed over his words as my mouth did the same with the fish. “The only thing I can’t figure out,” I said after a while, “is why.”
Telnan swallowed and said, “Why?”
“Why put yourself in a position where you’re unlikely to survive?”
“Oh?” He shrugged. “It’s fun,” he said, and ate some fish.
I should tell you about Daymar. I should, but I’m not sure if I can. Daymar was of the House of the Hawk, and typified much of the House: perceptive, clever, and, as they say, with a head so much in the Overcast that it had seeped in. He was tall, lanky, and, stooped a bit when he walked. He liked me for reasons I’ve never understood, especially when I recall our first meeting. His skills—but you’ll pick those up as we go.
“Hello, Vlad. A few minutes, no more. What can I do for you?”
“Loiosh.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Loiosh. That’s what you can do for me.”
He raised an eyebrow, which is just about his only expression. “What about him?”
“Someone attempted some form of location spell on him.”
“What form?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know.”