The Book of Taltos (38 page)

Scratch off another day, another visit from the local bone-tightener, and another couple of meals. I was beginning to feel like I could maybe move if I had to. The pain from the wounds was almost gone, but I still hurt from where I’d bruised myself in the fall. I expect that I’d have broken bones if my fall hadn’t been “cushioned” by tree limbs, which had given me teeth-loosening love pats all the way down. If I had broken a bone, chances are you’d have heard this story, if at all, from a completely different viewpoint. And the end would have been different, too.

My questioner came back after letting me ponder for an entire two days, I suppose to see if I got nervous. He sat down a few feet away from me. I might have tried to jump him if I’d been in better shape and had my weapons and knew more about the layout of the place and the position of the guards and if he hadn’t looked like he was ready for it.

“Well?” he said, trying to look stern and I guess succeeding.

“I would like to confess,” I said.

“Good.”

“I would like to confess that I wish very much to have a large dish of kethna, cubed and stir-fried with peppers and onions, seasoned with lemon and the rinds of clubfruit, with—”

“You obviously think this is funny,” he said.

I shook my head. “Food is never funny. The meals I’ve been getting are tragic.”

I noticed his hands kept trying to form fists, and decided that he was becoming impatient with me. Either they were serious about not beating prisoners, or he was saving up something good. He said, “Do you want to die?”

“Well, no,” I said. “But it’s bound to happen sooner or later.”

“We want to know who sent you.”

“I was following a vision.”

He glared, then got up and walked out. I wondered what they’d throw at me next. I hoped it wasn’t more seaweed.

I
SPENT A FEW
hours the next day remembering previous incarcerations. There had been one especially long one in the dungeons beneath the Imperial
Palace, as part of the affair that had gained me my exalted position in the Jhereg and had first brought my friend Aliera to the attention of the Empress. That had been a few weeks, and the worst thing had been the boredom. I’d dealt with it mostly by exercising and devising a communication system with my fellow inmates with which we could exchange rude comments about our various guards. This time I was in no condition to exercise, and I didn’t know where the other inmates, if any, were. I’d about decided that maybe some gentle isometrics wouldn’t hurt too much when the door opened again.

“Aibynn,” I said. “Have you come to tend my poor afflicted body? Or minister to my spirit?”

He sat down on the other bunk, looking faintly surprised to see me. “Hey,” he said. “I guess you aren’t used to dreamgrass.”

“I was in a weakened state,” I said. “Try it on me again sometime.”

He nodded thoughtfully and said, “I didn’t think you’d be alive. I thought they were going to, you know—” He made a chopping motion at the back of his neck.

“Probably are,” I said.

“Yeah. Me, too.” He leaned back, not seeming at all disturbed. I got the impression that he carried fatalism maybe a bit too far. Of course, it was quite possible that he was working for them. It was also possible that he wasn’t, that he’d been put in here so we could have conversations for them to overhear. The level of subtlety was about right for what I’d seen of these people.

I said, “Had any good meals?”

He considered this carefully. “Not really, no.”

“Neither have I.”

“I wouldn’t mind—” He stopped, staring up at the window. I followed his gaze, but didn’t see anything remarkable. I looked back at him.

“What is it?”

“There are bars on the window,” he said.

“Yes?”

“The room I was in didn’t have a window.”

“What about it?”

He picked up the wooden spoon from the remainder of my last meal, went up next to the window, and tapped one of the bars.

I said, “You think you can knock it loose?”

“Huh? Oh, no, nothing like that. But listen.” He tapped it again. It gave out the usual sound of thick iron when struck by thick wood. “Doesn’t that sound great?”

I tried to decide if he was joking. “Ummm, I think it needs tuning,” I said. “That’s true. I wonder if it would work to wrap a strip of cloth around part of it.”

I sighed and settled back onto my bed, hoping they were, in fact, listening. A few hours later the door opened. A pair of guards held their short spears and looked like they knew how they functioned. My friend the Royal whatever was behind them. He nodded to me and said, “Please come with me.”

I nodded to Aibynn and said, “Drum for me.”

“I will,” he said.

To bushy-brows I said, “I’m not certain I can walk very far.”

“We can carry you if necessary.”

“I’ll try,” I said. And I did. I was still a bit shaky on my feet, and my back hurt, but I could do it. I wobbled a bit more than I had to just on the principle that it couldn’t hurt if they thought I was worse off than I was. We only went a few feet down the hall, though, to a room which had a pair of low backless stools and several windows. He took one of the stools, and I lowered myself onto the other, not enjoying it.

He said, “There has been considerable discussion about what to do with the two of you. Some are in favor of suspending the ancient laws against torture. Others think you should be publicly executed right away, which will prevent the riots that seem to be brewing.”

He paused there, to see if I had anything to say. Since I didn’t think he’d want to hear about how my back felt, I stayed mute.

“At the moment His Majesty Corcor’n, the son of the man you killed, has everyone convinced to wait until we hear from the mainland. We expect them to deny having sent you, but we want to give them the option. If they do the expected, we will probably execute you. If you’re curious, most people are in favor of stoning you to death, though some think you should be bound and thrown to the orca.”

“I’m not really curious,” I said.

He nodded. “While we’re waiting, you still have the chance to tell us about
it. We will also be telling your comrade the same thing. If he talks before you do, he will most likely be exiled. If you talk, he will die and you might be allowed to leave. At least you will be allowed to take poison, a far more pleasant death than either of the other two.”

“You know that from personal experience?” I said.

He sighed. “You don’t want to tell us about it? Who sent you? Why?”

“I just came here for the fishing,” I said.

He turned to the guards. “Return him to the cell and bring the other one.” They did this. I could have said something clever to Aibynn as we passed, but nothing came to mind. I’d have given quite a bit to be able to hear what went on between the two of them, but I still had no connection to the Orb, and witchcraft, as I’ve said, wasn’t working. Maybe they were just sitting around playing s’yang stones long enough to make it look good. Or maybe they really believed he was helping me. Or maybe there was something else entirely going on that I was completely missing. It wouldn’t be the first time.

T
HEY LEFT US THERE
for two more days, during which I learned the distinction between “popping” a beat and “rolling” a rhythm, between fish and animal skin heads, how to tell if there is a small crack in the jawbone one intends to use as a beater, and the training that goes into making a festival, or “hard-ground” or “groundy,” drummer; a ritual, or “crashing surf” or “surfy,” drummer; and a spiritual, or “deep water” or “watery,” drummer. Aibynn had studied all three, but preferred surfy drumming.

I was less interested in all of this than I pretended to be, but it was the only entertainment around. I was interrogated twice more during this time, but you can probably fill in those conversations yourself. Conversation with Aibynn was more interesting than the interrogations, when he wasn’t drumming, but he didn’t say anything that helped me figure out if he was really working with them or not.

At one point he made a passing reference to the gods. I considered the differences between Dragaeran attitudes toward the divine and Eastern attitudes, and said, “What are gods?”

“A god,” he said, “is someone who isn’t bound by natural laws, and who
can morally commit an action which would be immoral for someone who wasn’t a god.”

“Sounds like you memorized that.”

“I have a friend who’s a philosopher.”

“Does he have any philosophy on escaping from cells?”

“He says that if you escape, you are required to bring your cellmate with you. Unless you’re a god,” he added.

“Right,” I said. “Does he have a philosophy about drumming?”

He gave me a curious look. “We’ve talked about it,” he said. “Sometimes, you know, when you’re playing, you’re in touch with something; there are things that flow through you, like you aren’t playing at all, but something else is playing you. That’s when it’s best.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s the same thing with assassination.”

He pretended to laugh, but I don’t think he really thought it was funny.

A
FTER HE CAME BACK
from his second session with the Royal Whootsidoo, I said, “What did he ask you about?”

“He wanted to know how many sounds I could get out of my drum.”

“Ah,” I said. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“How many?”

“Thirty-nine, using the head and the shell, both sides of the beater, fingers, and muffling. And then there are variations.”

“I see. Well, now I know.”

“I wish I had my drum.”

“I suppose so.”

“Has it rained since you’ve been here? I didn’t have a window at first.”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

“Good. Rain would ruin the head.”

A little later he said, “Why
did
we kill the King?”

I said, “We?”

“Well, that’s what they asked me.”

“Oh. He didn’t like our drum.”

“Good reason.”

Silence fell, and, when we weren’t talking, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to live, which got pretty depressing, so I said, “Those times you feel like you’re in tune with something, do you think it might be a god?”

He shook his head. “No. It isn’t anything like that. It’s hard to describe.”

“Try,” I said, and he cooperated by keeping me distracted until I drifted off to sleep.