Which Treats of Events
In a Part of the City
That the Author Visits
Only with Great Reluctance.
I
T IS WITH SOME REGRET that we must, at this point in our history, leave those who have, up until this moment, been the principal actors. In so doing, we also leave the well-known halls of the Imperial Palace in order to look in on an area of the city which has hitherto been entirely neglected. We assure the reader that this is indispensable, and that we would not abuse the power of our position to trifle with his sensitivities and interests.
Our journey does not, in fact, take us far from the Palace in distance, although it does in appearance and atmosphere. The Underside, as it was called, was the district directly to the north of the Palace, and bounded on the south by the Palace’s north wall. It lay between the Street of the Tsalmoth and the Street of the Jhereg, with the Street of the Vallista running through the middle. Some say it went north as far as the Twostar Canal, but others maintained that nothing north of the Avenue of the Bridges could properly be considered the Underside. The reader will understand if, concerning this question, the historian remains neutral.
Its reputation has survived the Interregnum, and, in contrast to most such cases, its reputation, by all accounts, was well deserved. The White Sash Battalion (under the command of Baroness Stonemover, who does not, alas, appear in this history), who made up the police force of Dragaera City, never entered this district in lesser numbers than four; or never fewer than six or eight if night had fallen. There was, so far as is known, never an epoch when the area was well patrolled after dark, and at the time of which we write the police rarely entered even during the day. It had, in fact, become something of a jest—one might ironically suggest to a visitor who had outstayed his welcome that he run a footrace to the Bridge and return later for his prize. If one was suspicious of a business deal, one might say that it “smelled like the
Underside.” The reference to the district’s foul atmosphere was quite literally true.
His Majesty, in the 183
rd
year of his reign, signed his Sewage Edicts, among the least remembered and most beneficial acts of a reign which the facts testify deserves far better treatment from history than it has received. There are surviving records of the efficiency and thoroughness with which the edicts were implemented, but nowhere is there any reference to any of the policies it details being put into effect in the Underside. The air of the Underside was filled with odors that we will not disturb our readers’ sensibilities by reciting, save by remarking that, although the slaughterhouses of Baron Whitemill were located in this district, nowhere is it recorded that anyone noticed the fumes they produced. It is well known, also, that on those rare days when a north wind blew, all of the windows in the Jhereg and Vallista Wings of the Palace had to be closed, and there were even days when the stench would infiltrate as far as the Imperial Wing.
As to the class and condition of those unfortunates who actually dwelt there, well, this is a matter upon which we suspect the intellect of the reader may safely be turned with little worry that he will stray from the truth.
Let us, then, hold our breath and shut our eyes until we arrive at the relative safety of a small cabaret. We need not observe this hostel closely, for it looked like a thousand others; reached by walking down three wooden steps, it was dimly lit, with a large room in front and two or three smaller rooms curtained off in back. In the main room, there were four or five round tables, and plain, shabby benches at which to sit, and a long, high counter behind which stood the host, a burly Chreotha whose past must remain a mystery. The cabaret was situated on a street that may as well remain nameless, in a neighborhood like many others; it was a neighborhood populated by day-laborers, petty thieves, assorted malcontents—and one man in particular who was called, simply, Greycat, for reasons of which we must confess our ignorance.
Physically, we can sketch him in an instant. The first thing we might notice would be a pink, puffy scar just above his right eye—a scar as if a wild animal had attempted to remove this eye and only a dodge at the last instant, so to speak, had saved him. Far from being the only mark on Greycat’s face, this scar was merely the most prominent, for there were, here and there, signs of other wounds about him, from forehead to neck, and even one on his scalp that ran alongside his noble’s point—for he was, indeed, a son of the nobility. His right eye, because of the scar, was slightly squinting, and his left eye would at times match this squint, as if of its own volition.
He was by no means a large man, yet he conveyed the impression of great strength within his small frame—a single look would convince the observer
that he was made up of bone and muscle and perhaps a small quantity of blood, and nothing else. He wore plain, dark clothes, and a floppy hat that would have been more at home on a buffoon or a beggar than on one with Greycat’s countenance. For we should add that Greycat had an evil look about him—a look that, by itself, would have fully accounted for the fact that, even in this cabaret, peopled as it was by those used to surviving in the Underside, no one wished to approach him. In fact, there were additional reasons why he was left alone, not the least of which was his reputation.
To round off our sketch, we will add that he was armed. A long, heavy blade was at his side; and, judging from the plain, smooth hilt, it was a soldier’s weapon. One rumor was that Greycat had, indeed, been a soldier, perhaps in one of the mercenary armies hired by the rebellious Duke of Hoarwall, and that he, Greycat, had deserted during the Battle of Irontown, at which the duke was captured and executed. If this tale was true, no one doubted that his desertion had been caused by something other than cowardice.
There were other stories about him. Some said that he had been the Consort’s lover, and that His Majesty had had him tortured, and he had somehow escaped. At other times, it was said that he was a Jhereg assassin, and, in fact, some had promised him gold if he would beat or kill an enemy, but he had never accepted these offers.
Whatever his history, trial and hardship were clearly written there, and if he offered no explanation, neither did he make any effort to conceal them. It was known that “he never troubled anyone who didn’t trouble him,” and that, on those rare occasions when he drank, he only became quieter and quieter until he fell asleep. On one such occasion, a cutpurse with more courage than wisdom had attempted to ply his art; Greycat had come out of his stupor long enough to cut the thief’s throat before resuming his interrupted nap.
This was Greycat; this was the man who, however distasteful we may find it, our history absolutely requires we observe, for, as evening falls on Dragaera City, he and certain visitors are about to hold a conference at which issues will be raised that are of no small importance to the subsequent events we must relate.
The first to arrive was the most harmless-looking—she was small and elegant, dressed in black pants, black boots, and black shirt with grey trim. She did not appear to be armed, but there was the emblem of a Jhereg below her left collar, and a ring with the same design on the third finger of her right hand, and these were sufficient to guarantee her safety—or, if not, they promised nothing good to whoever couldn’t read the message they sent. She was called Laral.
She saw Greycat sitting alone at his table, and joined him there. As she sat, he stood in a gesture at once courtly and unconscious. She acknowledged his
courtesy with a nod, and they sat waiting, neither speaking nor even drinking—which, considering the usual wines and ales at Underside cabarets, must be thought of as wisdom.
Next to arrive was one who would be called a gentleman only if one saw the noble’s point peaking out from beneath his hood. The hood, we should add, was of the type used by seamen in heavy storms, and was attached to the appropriate oiled cloak. He was the largest of the group; his hands were heavily callused and there was hair growing on their backs—a sure sign, as is well known, of a bestial nature. He seemed ill at ease in the cabaret; in fact, he seemed ill at ease in general, to judge from the way he opened and closed his fists as he looked around for a familiar face. Beneath the oiled cloak could be seen enough of his pale blue and green garments to establish that he was, in fact, of the House of the Orca. His name was Chaler.
He espied Greycat and, after obtaining a cup of ale, sat down next to him, with a hesitant nod to Laral.
An instant later the fourth member of the party arrived. He wore no hat—indeed, it would have been difficult to find a hat that would not have looked absurd amid his hair, which was bright red, and, moreover, grew wildly and haphazardly all about his head, proving to be his most distinctive feature. Otherwise he had the sharp chin, long nose, and narrow eyes of a fox, on a thin frame that gave the appearance of being unable to bend, like a sword that has been poorly tempered, and so will, upon the application of pressure, break rather than bow. Even with his noble’s point concealed beneath his profusion of hair, he was unmistakably an aristocrat, but neither his face nor his dress, which was dull black, though of a fine cut, gave any clue as to his House. At his side was an incongruously heavy sword, with a plain, leather-wrapped wooden hilt—a sword such as an elegantly dressed gentleman would never wear unless he knew its length. His name was Dunaan.
He sat next to Chaler, whom he ignored, after nodding to Greycat and scowling briefly at Laral.
It should be understood that, until this point, no words had been exchanged. Greycat said, “Let us retire.” His speech was difficult to place, for it seemed, at first, like the refined accents of the court, but there echoes of distant places in the way he drew out some of his vowels.
Dunaan’s speech was of someone who had lived all his life in Dragaera City itself. He said, “Are we not missing someone?”
“No,” said Greycat.
“Very well,” said Dunaan.
They rose as one and followed Greycat into one of the back rooms, which he had reserved for their use. Chaler, who had finished his ale, left the cup where it was, making no effort to procure more, indicating that he was capable
of what the natural philosopher calls, “learning behavior,” which turn of phrase pleases us so much that we cannot resist making use of it.
It is worthwhile to wonder at the wisdom of moving into one of the private rooms. By doing so, they not only made themselves more conspicuous, but put themselves into a position where they would be unable to see anyone who chose to listen in on their conversation; the protection from eavesdroppers afforded by the thin walls of the room was negligible. Perhaps they chose this room because they had been given to understand that conspirators (and they recognized, as, no doubt, has the astute reader, that they were conspirators) always met in small rooms in public houses. Still, there can be no question that it was foolish, and the only reason their conversation escaped notice was because, in fact, no one in the cabaret actually cared what they said.
The room was small, lit only by a pair of lanterns in opposite corners, and, due to certain support beams that kept the building above from falling into the cabaret below, was crisscrossed with shadows, giving a sinister look to the place. In summary, then, we can say that it looked like the set for one of the Tenth Cycle conspiracy dramas so popular on the Street of Oranges at the time, and even gave the impression that those involved were playing at conspiracy, rather than actively involved in one.
We can only attribute this to a certain lack of experience, for the conspirators were, in fact, entirely serious about their intentions, and, furthermore, considering their actions up to this time, there could be no question of joking at all.
Once they were all seated (in the same relative positions they had occupied before), Laral spoke, affecting the accent of the court. “What of Leen?” she said.
Chaler spoke with the twang of the Southern Coast—in other words, he sounded just the way he ought to, saving only that his voice was slightly higher-pitched than one would expect of a man his size: “He failed, my lady.”
“Failed?” said Dunaan.
“Yes,” said Greycat. “Chaler has already informed me. The Tiassa killed him.”
“He was clumsy, my lord,” said Chaler.
“I assume,” said Dunaan ironically, “that you refer to Leen, not the Tiassa.”
Chaler swallowed, as if Dunaan made him nervous, and said, “Yes. Leen was clumsy.”
“I take it,” said Laral, “that you were not?”
“I was not, my lady,” said Chaler.
“Nor,” said Laral, “was I.”
“Nothing unexpected happened in my case,” said Dunaan.
Greycat simply nodded.
“What then?” said Laral.
“We must kill the Tiassa,” said Greycat.
“If you like,” said Dunaan, “I will see to him.”
“No,” said Greycat. “Leen was an Orca; let Chaler repair the error.”
The Orca in question nodded, indicating that he thought this proposal entirely reasonable.