I said, “If I get so much as a hint that either one of you are attempting psychic contact, I will have your souls.”
I had to admire Vaasci; there wasn’t even a flicker. His friend moaned, but that was because of the steel sticking out of him. I spared him a glance and said, “You’ll live.”
He started to say something, but coughed, and there was a trickle of reddish foam around his lips. I might have been wrong. “Loiosh—”
“Be right there, Boss. You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay,” I told Vaasci. “Now, we need to talk. I’m—”
“I know who you are.”
“Good. That saves time.”
Loiosh flew into the room and landed on my right shoulder. Rocza took up a position on my left.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“I felt something. I couldn’t pay attention, but you were—”
“Don’t worry about it, Boss.”
I studied Vaasci in silence while I thought things over. “Got caught in the curtain, didn’t you?”
“Shut up, Boss.”
“Watch them close, Loiosh. I need to know if either one attempts psychic contact.”
“I’m on it.”
“There aren’t any curtains in the way.”
“Shut up, Boss.”
“Okay, m’lord Vaasci. We have a problem, you and I.”
He glowered. Or maybe glared. I’ve never been too sure of the difference.
“I admire your cleverness,” I said. “It was a nice move. But I can’t let it happen. Personal reasons.”
“You are so dead, Taltos, that it’s hardly worth talking to you.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. But there are things I can do before I lie down. And you probably don’t want me doing them on you.”
“Okay. Keep talking.”
“That was my plan.”
I cleared my throat.
“Like I said, the operation is over. You are out of South Adrilankha as of now. I know who you’re working for, by the way, and he doesn’t scare me. Not much scares me at this point, since, as you said, I’m pretty much dead already.”
“What aren’t you telling me, and get on with it.”
“You’ve got nerve, Lord Vaasci, I’ll give you that.”
“Spare me the compliments, dead man.”
For just a second, I wanted to shove the blade home. But I didn’t do it, and he knew I wouldn’t do it, so—“You tell your boss that ... no. Tell your boss to tell his boss that South Adrilankha is off limits. For you, and for the Left Hand. All Jhereg operations here are off. Whatever the Easterners want to do here, they do.”
“Right, Taltos. And he’ll listen because you said so.”
“No, he’ll listen because I’m very persuasive, and because it’ll be much cheaper to leave it alone.”
“And you’re going to convince him of that.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll pass the word on.”
“Meantime, you get out of here. If I see you on this side of the river again, I don’t have to explain what will happen, do I?”
His eyes never left mine. “No, I think I’m clear enough on that.”
“Okay. Take care of your associate. He looks uncomfortable.” I turned my back on him and walked out. Smooth.
“Loiosh?”
“They aren’t moving.”
“Okay, I’m clear. Come on out. Careful of the curtain.”
I walked through the room. The host glanced at me then quickly looked away. Two or three patrons were carefully not looking in my direction either. It was just like after an assassination, except that it had taken longer, and no one had died. Well, unless Vaasci’s friend succumbed to the dagger I’d left in him.
I was shaking just a little when I got onto the street. Loiosh and Rocza flew through the broken window and joined me. I felt bad about the window.
We moved quickly back east. Loiosh said, “We survived.”
“Yes. Were you worried?”
“Me? Of course not, Boss.”
“I was. That was a risky move.”
“Well, I admit if there had happened to be a couple more there, it could have gotten interesting.”
I made it back to Six Corners, and found the pieces of Sandor right where I’d left them. Loiosh assured me that no one was around, so I put them on once more, not without a certain regret mixed with the sense of relief.
Okay, I had certainly opened the dam; now I got to see whose fields got flooded. 13. Descani Wine (Continued)
If you follow your waiter’s recommendation, which I almost always do at Valabar’s, the wine that goes with the salad is also the wine that ac-companies the fowl. I don’t actually know the reason for that, though I could speculate that it has to do with transitions.
Transitions are important in a good meal, whether the next flavor has only the most subtle differences from the previous, like between the fish and the goslingroot, where the butter and the lemon defined the flavor, or drastic differences, like between the salad and the chicken.
In this case, it was the wine that provided continuity, and reminded my mouth that, however much things changed, and however one moment was completely unlike the one that preceded it, they were both still moments in an endless stream, the product of all that has gone before, and the producer of what will follow; the lingering chill of the wine, now partaking of the fullness of a red, now of the elegance of a white, making us step back a bit from the irresistible now of the chicken, and declaring an eternal context of life, or meal.
Yeah, if you haven’t figured it out yet, food makes me philosophical. Poetic, too. Deal with it.
But there’s a point I want to make: The wine that you drink with the salad is different from the wine that you drink with the fowl. They are the same, but what is happening in your palate is so different that the wine is different too. Like when you greet a particular gentleman with the same words and in the same tone the day before and the day after you’ve agreed to put a shine on him; the context changes the significance of the greeting.
The difference in the food made it different wine; it changed everything.
“This is some good stuff,” said Telnan.
He’s not as poetic as me.
The lack of a course is a course, just like the spaces between the notes are part of the music. Actually, I wouldn’t know about that last part; it’s something Aibynn told me. But I can testify that it’s true of a good meal.
After the fowl, you know what is coming next, because it is the thing that you actually ordered—half a lifetime ago, it seems. Your order has been sitting in the back of the mind for the entire meal. Every sip, every morsel has been a delight in itself, and, at the same time, a preparation for what is next.
And so, of course, Valabar’s makes you wait for it while you drink the wine that went with the fowl.
They clear off the table, leaving you half a bottle of wine and your glasses. Then they come by and give you a whole new setting. I can’t think of any reason for them to do that unless they are deliberately delaying, building the tension. If that is the reason, I can only say it works. New plates, new flatware, new wineglasses. The sound—soft but unmistakable—of each item set on the table was like music. Or, I imagine, what music would be like to those who felt about music the way I feel about food.
“What comes next?” said Telnan.