Posted by skzb
http://dreamcafe.com/2026/05/01/jules-a-chapter-of-chreotha/
https://dreamcafe.com/?p=8356
Jules
Part of, and apart from: that was me during the Uprising of 243-244.
In one sense, I was in the thick of it: I was there when we came within a teckla’s squeal of a massacre, and maybe I even had a hand in stopping it.
But in another sense, I never felt like it had anything to do with me. I was an outsider to the Dragaerans because I was an Easterner, and an outsider to the Easterners because I was a Jhereg. I could easily have just sat the whole thing out if it weren’t for a few personal issues that gave me a stake in it, but I was never truly involved. That changed for a couple of days when I was returning from a visit to my grandfather right in the middle of the whole thing. That’s when I ran into Jules.
This was a part of South Adrilankha I both knew well and didn’t know at all. Let me explain that, because the location is what led to everything that followed.
In general, I knew the area; it was close to the Chain Bridge, which was where I was headed, but I’d taken a detour in hopes of avoiding the excitement. So, yeah, I knew this area in general, but not in specific. And at first, I didn’t even notice Jules, nor did Loiosh and Rocza; it was well after dark. I only became aware of him when he said something in a language I’d never heard before.
I did quick spell to create a dim light. An Easterner, of course. He was sitting against a creaky wooden structure–an empty stable with an attached deserted tack shop in a tiny market circle. Neither were common in South Adrilankha, which is why it caught my eye.
We were the only ones on the street at that moment–I guess everyone else was either hiding from the Phoenix Guards or challenging them. I glanced at Jules, pointed to my ear, shrugged, and resumed walking.
“Sorry,” he said. “Not such good language.”
I took a closer look at him. He was next to the door to the tack shop, back against the wall, legs sticking out–one of them looked like might be broken. This fell squarely into the category of “not-a-Vlad-problem.” Feeling some satisfaction for putting the situation into the right cubbyhole, I started walking away again.
“Please,” he said. “Before you away, can you explain me something?”
I almost made a remark about it being unlikely since I was having trouble understanding him at all, but my grandfather wouldn’t have cared for that. I guess thinking about my grandfather is why I stopped and nodded.
“I am Jules,” he told me. I waited. After a moment he said, “The guards of the Emperor.”
“Empress,” I said. “But yes. What of them?”
“Explain me, please, why they fight to us.”
“Huh,” I said. “I don’t suppose you speak Fenarian?”
“I’m sorry, I am a watchtower here and I do not know your beautiful language,” he said in a heavily accented version of my beautiful language.
It took me a moment to figure out the “watchtower” thing. I managed not to chuckle. “Yeah, uh, even if I could answer your question, I doubt I’d be able to communicate it.”
“They break my leg, and I nothing did.”
I looked around the area and tried to remember what was nearby.
“There’s a physicker just across the street and around the corner, that way, toward the bridge. Look for the sign with an open hand with a spiral on the palm.”
“I can’t walk.”
I sighed.
“Loiosh?”
“Boss, if this is a setup, it’s the most pointlessly complicated setup in the history of crime.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of what I was thinking.”
I helped him stand, then, with his arm draped over my shoulder, helped him limp down the street.
He occasionally hissed as we walked, but that was all.
It was a long walk for how short the distance was. He leaned on me more heavily as we continued, but he wasn’t an especially large man.
“You are a weapon carry,” he said, inviting me to tell him more about myself.
“It’s a dangerous world,” I said, declining the invitation.
He grunted something that might have passed for agreement.
The house had one door and more than one story and there were probably three or four families living there. I started to clap outside the door, but remembered where I was and hit it with the side of my fist. Jules leaned against the house next to the door, closed his eyes, opened them, and said, “Thanks you.”
I grunted something that might have passed for “you’re welcome.”
He said, “Not many happens here in night.”
I took a moment to translate that, then said, “No, not a lot of activity around here after dark. Especially not now, with the Guard wandering around doing, well, what they did to you.”
In spite of his language problems, he seemed to understand me well enough.
“It is different now since twenty years.”
“That’s how long you’ve been here?”
“No, no. I lived at here during twenty years ago, but went back at home in a year, and only now returns.”
I hit the door again while I tried to parse that.
“Where is home?” I asked him.
“East,” he said helpfully.
A window opened above us and a voice called down, politely inquiring what by the name of several Eastern deities we were doing bothering him at this time of night and were we unaware that decent people were asleep at this hour and inquiring if we would like him to come down there and knock our heads with a large marble bust of one of the aforementioned deities.
“Got a broken leg here,” I called up. “Need a physicker.”
He cursed a little more then said, “I’ll get her.”
Eventually the door opened, and a middle-aged Easterner came out holding a lantern, looked us over, and gestured for us to come in. I helped Jules follow her up the stairs. Physickers shouldn’t live on an upper floor, but I refrained from explaining that.
When we reached the top, she looked him over briefly, then me.
“You’re the Taltos boy, aren’t you?” she said.
“Yes. You know my Noish-pa?”
“For many years.” She glanced at the weapon hanging from my hip, looked like she was about to say something, but didn’t. Instead she said, “Beaten by the Guard?”
“Yes.”
She nodded. “Two of the rooms are occupied by other patients, but I have one free. Bring him in there,” she told me, “and I’ll set the leg.”
Once we had reached the room and Jules was settled in, I laid an Imperial on the counter to cover the cost, and took my leave, having fulfilled all of the obligations I never had in the first place. Vlad Taltos: humanitarian.
I made it back to my dismal flat without meeting anyone else interesting. Cawti wasn’t home, so I went to bed and had a dream in which I was trying to explain to someone that I’d lost my lucky coin but the person couldn’t understand what I was saying. I woke up a little upset until I remembered that I don’t have a lucky coin. I’ve heard people say that dreams give you prophesies and insights. I think looking for prophesies and insights in dreams just makes you stupid.
The next morning, I stared at the ceiling for a while and tried to think of a reason to get up. Eventually I came up with klava at Duvon’s little place, and that did the trick, though just barely. By the time I was done with the klava, I was hardly regretting having gotten out of bed.
It was weird, that morning.
Here in the City, it was business as usual–Teckla and tradesmen scurrying about to get things done, the occasional nobleman strolling by asking to be admired, and, as always, Jhereg businesses operating in the seams. And yet, a few short miles away, across the river, I knew that Imperial troops were facing Easterners and Teckla, with violence in the air like a bonfire waiting for a sorcerer to cast a spark.
On this side, it was safe; on that side, it, well, wasn’t. And I had no part in it anyway.
Cawti.
Yeah.
“Boss, Rocza and I can go check, make sure she’s okay, so you don’t have to–“
“I need to be there, Loiosh. If she makes contact with me, I want to be close.”
“Okay, Boss.”
I considered taking the Stone Bridge so I could reach the action more slowly and maybe learn what was going on, but I was nervous about Cawti, and the Chain Bridge would get me there faster, so I took that.
I went past the physicker’s house, and my first reaction on seeing the black bunting hanging from the window was how strange it was for a sorcerer to set up shop in South Adrilankha. Then I remembered that, to Easterners, black represents death.
Well, crap.
I guess I could have ignored it and just kept walking, but, to be honest, I never even considered it. I went over to the door I’d been to a few hours earlier and pounded on it with my fist. I heard stomping sounds and the door was opened by an Easterner of about my height. He was clean-shaven, had lost much of the hair on his head, and his eyes were red.
“My name is Vlad,” I said. “I’ve come to pay my respects.”
He nodded. “I am Lotsi. She was my wife.” He started back up the stairs. Climbing the stairs he seemed much older than he looked; I closed the door and followed him.
I hadn’t paid a lot of attention last night, but the flat was bigger than I’d expected–a parlor and probably three or four small bedrooms, one of which she’d taken Jules to for treatment. There was no kitchen. There were half a dozen Easterners there, including a girl and a boy I estimated at eleven and eight years old. The physicker was there, already in a coffin in the middle of the room. Her skin didn’t glisten, because Easterners don’t need to be preserved for the trip to Deathgate, we just get dumped in the ground or burned, but I guess first you have to sit in a coffin for a while and let people stare at you. To be honest, it was kind of creepy.
My grandfather was one of the visitors. He stood up as I came in and hugged me. “You knew Chilla?”
“Only briefly. What happened?”
Lotsi sat down on the floor; there were only four chairs. A young man with swept-back hair and pointed sideburns started to get up to offer me his, but I shook my head at him.
“Noish-pa, what happened?”
Instead of answering, he nodded to Lotsi, who said, “She was murdered by a patient.”
“Last night, after midnight?”
Noirsh-pa frowned. “You know something of this?”
“Not enough,” I said. “But I will.”
“Why?”
That stopped me. Why indeed? I didn’t know. There was a burning ember of rage down in my belly, but I didn’t know why it was there. After a moment, I said, “Because I helped get him here. He used me.” I don’t think Noish-pa believed that was the whole answer, and I don’t think I did either; but it was the best I could do for either of us.
I turned back to Lotsi. “Did you hear anything? See anything?”
“Vladimir,” said Noish-pa in his rare stern voice. “I know you wish to find this faht-tyu. But now is not the time.”
“Noish-pa, I need information.”
Noish-pa shook his head. “Still, Lotsi needs–“
“No,” said Lotsi. “I want him found.”
“He will be,” I said.
“If he so wishes,” said Noish-pa, “then I am content.”
I asked Lotsi again if he’d seen or heard anything. He shook his head.
“How did she die?”
“She was hit,” he said, his voice shaking. “In the head. The back of her head was . . . .” He swallowed.
“But you didn’t hear it?”
“I was asleep,” he said, and it looked he was going to cry.
“There were three patients here. Did you talk to them?”
“I only saw two–they were here when I went to sleep, and we’re still here when I woke up.
“So it was probably the third,” I said. “Jules.”
“That was his name? How do you know?”
“Okay,” I said.
I hadn’t noticed it at once, but the stench of South Adrilankha was missing from the place. Not all that unusual: witches are pretty good at getting rid of unpleasant smells. What brought it to mind was, as I was standing there, I caught a whiff of the refuse piles that dot the streets of the district. It was wind, blowing through an open window, and whatever spells were in place worked quickly, because the stench was gone in the next breath.
I walked around the room, looking at everything, then to the other rooms; Lotsi walked with me, saying nothing. In a tiny room with a small desk, a chair, and a window, I turned back to Lotsi. “What are those papers on the floor?”
“Recipes for patients.”
“Why are they on the floor?”
Lotsi frowned at them, then looked at the desk, back at the papers, and said, “The stone is gone.”
“Stone?” I said.
“A large piece of polished obsidian that she used to hold down the papers.”
Then we all looked around, and didn’t see the obsidian.
Some puzzles are easier to solve than others.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll be back when I know something.” Why waste your time grieving with a family when you can cause grieving in the family of the bastard responsible?
The foul stench of South Adrilankha hit me hard as I walked out the door.
Jules. Who are you? What are you? What don’t I know?
I leaned against the house with the black bunting and tried to think. It wasn’t easy. First of all, killing a physicker is enough by itself to make me scowl, much less one who knew my grandfather. But someone had made me a party to it, and that was enough make me feel downright annoyed–like, annoyed enough to want to put a knife into the first stranger who looked at me funny.
No, I didn’t do that. I’ve never done that. But I wanted to, and feeling like that does not help you think.
Okay. Could Jules have known I’d walk past that spot? No. Could he have known I’d decide to help him if I did? Again, no. Could he have known I’d go to that physicker? Once more, no. Conclusion: he had not set out to kill the physicker. That meant something had happened after I’d left them that caused him to kill her.
I went back to the deserted tack shop where I’d first seen him and looked around. There was nothing going on here–no one in the street at all.
All right, then. Not far from here was an area that was sometimes called the Market District and other times called, Brugan’s Court for reasons that are a mystery. Where it started and ended is unclear, but it was generally in a part of South Adrilankha just west of Village Square, which is more or less the center. There were plenty of markets through the area, and a lot of open spaces, and it was here the Phoenix Guards and Imperial solders were patrolling in large groups, driving off larger groups of Easterners and Teckla, or else standing there confronting them. I’d been heading there anyway, because that’s where Cawti was likely to be.
It wasn’t a long walk. Loiosh and Rocza immediately left my shoulders and began scouting, although I doubted they’d be able to tell me anything useful this time. I mean, yeah, there’d be a bunch of Phoenix Guards ahead. I knew that already.
“There are a bunch of Phoenix Guards ahead, Boss.”
“Thanks.”
I turned a corner and there they were: Phoenix Guards, and a gang–I can’t call it a troop–of conscripted Teckla looking like they wanted to be somewhere else–or else maybe right there but facing the other direction. It seemed like a gutsy move to ask Teckla to face off against their own kind. How strong were the threads of discipline, fear, or both that held them there? What would it take to break them, and how would things look if it happened?
As I got closer, I studied faces. It was an interesting study: the Phoenix Guards looking grim and stoic, with occasional hints of nervousness. The officers–I saw two of them–had that expression officers get when they’re trying to look bored but aren’t quite able to pull it off. The conscripted Teckla were making no attempt to conceal their desire to be elsewhere. The insurgent Teckla and Easterners, holding kitchen knives, clubs, hammers, garden tools, and the occasional rusty sword, just looked determined.
There was an impossible tension in the air, and I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before something broke. When it did, whatever or however it happened, it wouldn’t be pretty.
I didn’t see Cawti, but that was no surprise–this scene was being played out, in smaller versions, and maybe some larger ones, throughout the district; no doubt she was involved somewhere, but finding her would not be easy. Nor would finding Jules.
A couple of the Phoenix Guards noticed me approach: an Easterner in Jhereg colors openly armed; with all the tension there already, was I about to set something off? I wanted to give them a reassuring smile, but my mouth wouldn’t do it, so I just ignored them and walked past. Walking past, you understand, means walking behind the Guards who were facing the Easterners and Teckla; I could feel several pairs of eyes on me until I was past them.
Just to be clear, I had a destination in mind: The group Cawti was working with were in the center of all of this, and I knew the house where they met.
I passed clumps of Easterners and Teckla milling around–groups of four or six who didn’t seem to know what to do with themselves. They weren’t confronting the Empire, but neither were they getting out of the area. The undecided, I guessed; with sympathy for the rebels, but not ready to actually join them. I got suspicious looks from them, which I ignored.
And then I met the drunk.
He left his 4 friends and staggered over toward me, holding a heavy club of some sort. Clubs can break swords, so I didn’t want to take it lightly, but if I could stand toe to toe with a Dragaeran with a honking big greatsword, I should be able to manage a drunk Easterner with a big stick, right?
He said something that would have been, “Are you another informer?” but was, in fact, a much longer sentence with the number of obscenities he manage to throw into it. I was actually impressed. “I’ll show you how we deal with informers,” he said, and fell on his face.
Some comments are just too easy to bother making.
His friends, who were clearly less drunk than him, gave me an apologetic look and came over to get him. “So, how do you deal with informers?” I said.
One of them, a guy with arms like a blacksmith and a belly like an innkeeper, said, “We haven’t done anything, but I guess some others found one and beat him up pretty good. Broke his arm.”
“Leg,” said another.
“I thought it was his collar bone.”
“Should have been his neck.”
Well now.
“Who were these others?”
“Why do you want to know?” said a short little guy whose ears stuck out. He was looking suspicious.
Every once in a while, you find a situation where your best choice is to tell the truth. “I saw a guy with a broken leg last night, helped him to a physicker, and I think he killed the physicker. I would very much like to have a chat with him.”
“Wait,” said the big guy. “What physicker?”
“Her name is Chilla.”
“He killed Chilla?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Him and his whore mother to Hell,” he said in Bizni.
“May a snail fall into his intestines,” said one of the others in Fenarian.
The drunk guy started snoring, which added little to the conversation.
The guy with the ears grunted and said, “I don’t know who beat him; just heard some people talking about it. No one I knew.”
“Any idea how they knew he was an informer?”
He shook his head, but the big one said, “I heard they saw him an alley, taking money from an officer of the Guard.”
A skinny fellow who looked like he was related to the guy with the ears, said, “I heard he was pretending to be a foreigner, but someone recognized him.”
“Anyone say what he looked like?”
They all shook their heads.
I looked down at the drunk guy and nudged him with my foot. “You should probably get this guy home.”
They mumbled agreement, got him to his feet, and wandered off.
So, did I believe this story, probably filtered through dozens of people who only heard half of it? I’d normally say no, if he hadn’t mentioned that bit about pretending to be a foreigner. Damn. I fell for it, too. If I hadn’t already been angry enough to kill him, that would have made me angry enough to kill him; I hate being made a fool of.
It seemed likely enough, at any rate, to be worth looking at further. But I still didn’t know how to find the bastard.
Okay, then; if I couldn’t find him on the street, I could start from the opposite side, from who he was informing to. Who would handle informers? Someone at the Palace, no doubt; but that got me as far as the knowledge that if I wanted to find a particular clam I should look in the Ocean-sea. Where in the Palace? Dragon Wing? Imperial Wing? Maybe the Iorich Wing? I could even make an argument for the Yendi Wing.
I found a quiet spot between two houses where I wouldn’t have to watch my back for a while, and . . . .
“Aliera e’Kieron, oh you great font of wisdom and knowledge, oh, mighty learner of Truth, oh–“
“What do you want, Vlad? I’m kind of busy.”
“Who handles informers?”
“Informers? I don’t understand.”
“You know what’s going on in South Adrilankha, right?”
“I guess. Some sort of unrest?”
“Um. Okay, yeah. Well, there are Easterners who are paid to report to the Empire on who is doing what.”
“How distasteful.”
“Yes. Where would these people report?”
“Oh. I’m not sure. Sethra might know, although her information is likely out of date.”
“That’s what I was thinking, which is why I thought to ask you first.”
“Is it important?”
“It is to me.”
“All right. I’ll see if I can find out.”
“Thank you, Aliera.”
I realized I was hungry, but there was nowhere to eat–the inns near me were closed and the carts were missing. I grumbled to myself and set about ignoring it.
While I waited for Aliera, I checked in with a few other clumps. One group had heard of an informer being beaten up, but it was both arms that were broken. Another group had heard that someone was throwing rocks at the Phoenix Guards and it was thought they were paying him to start trouble. From still another I learned that he’d been imported from Norumland–wherever that was–specifically to infiltrate the rebels. Most of them didn’t have any physical description, and the few exceptions could have been describing Jules. Or almost anyone else.
“Vlad?”
“Yes, Aliera. I’m listening.”
“It isn’t certain–there are a number of possibilities, depending on if the informer is reporting to the Guard, the Army, or if it is something the Empress want to keep closer to her chin. My guess is the latter, which means the most likely is a small group that reports only to the Empress, it’s members identifiable by a platinum ring on the middle finger of the left hand. I do not know anyone in this group.”
“Um. So, I wander around the Palace until I meet someone with a platinum ring on the middle finger of his hand?”
“Oh, no. They only put the ring on when they need to identify themselves.”
“Oh. So I wander the Imperial Palace until I meet someone without a platinum ring on the middle finger of his hand? I can see some potential problems with this method.”
“Vlad, have you ever had your hair set on fire? I think I might be able to do it from here. Where are you exactly?”
“Sorry, sorry. I’m a little frustrated.”
“I know they meet–when they meet–on the third floor of the Imperial Wing, in some room tucked into a corner not far from Emperor’s library. The Emperor’s Library just stores old records of some kind, and there’s not much else around, so it may be the quietest part of the Palace, or at least of the Imperial Wing. That’s probably why they chose it.”
“Okay, that’s something. Thank you. How did you find out all of this?”
“I asked Sethra.”
“Oh,” I said.
I wanted to head to the Palace and try to deal with that, but I also wanted to be close to Cawti, just in case something happened. Yes, yes. I knew she could take care of herself, and I also knew that if “something happened” it was very unlikely I’d be able to help. Forgive me if I’m not always 100% rational, okay?
“Boss? Rocza can find her and watch her.”
I scowled and thought and scowled, then said, “All right.” Rocza flew off like she knew where she was going. Maybe she did.
I took the Stone Bridge, because at this point I didn’t want any more trouble with the Phoenix Guards. I’d never before been the only person on the bridge, and it was a little creepy. My sword and my colors were like a pass when leaving the Bridge; the Phoenix Guard stationed there didn’t like me, but didn’t stop me. Once I was in the City, I found a meat pastry. I moved it from hand to hand until it had cooled a bit, then took tiny bites until it had cooled more. I wondered if Dragaeran tongues burned at a different temperature than human tongues. That would be something worth investigating never.
The approach to the Imperial Wing takes you, past the House of the Phoenix, and then under a living canopy of Ulmas trees that lead up to the broad white steps before the doors. I can’t tell you how the doors are decorated, because I’ve never seen them closed. Although, in truth, I haven’t been in Imperial Wing often, and usually when I went in it was through another entrance, like coming from the Iorich Wing through Prisoner’s Hall.
Loiosh grumblingly slipped into my cloak as I approached the door.
Once inside, a Teckla in Phoenix Livery asked my business. I thought about saying I was here to pay a visit to my dear friend Zerika, but thought better of it–he’d probably heard that line, delivered either as a joke or with the intent to convince, more times than I’d killed people. I said, “Baronet Vladimir Taltos, here to beg for an audience with her Majesty.”
In fact, I wasn’t here to beg for an audience or anything else, but that was a reasonable response to that question, and it wasn’t the Teckla’s business whether I actually got the audience. He gave me directions to somewhere I was supposed to go to submit my petition, which I’d have paid attention to if speaking with the Empress was actually my intention. So I set off through the halls of the Palace, filled with people bigger, stronger, and much, much longer-lived than me. I stroked my mustache because I could.
Forgive me if I don’t embarrass myself by telling you how long it took me to find what they called the “Central Stairway.” I mean, if something is the “Central Stairway,” wouldn’t you think it’d be somewhere central? Anyway, I found it, and managed to do so without accidentally stumbling into the throne room.
Of course, that would have been story to tell my grandchildren, wouldn’t it? Not that I had very good odds of meeting my grandchildren. Or having any, for that matter.
And on that morbid note, I headed up the stairs.
I got lucky and found a servant who was able to direct me to the Emperor’s Library (as opposed to the Imperial Library, which was entirely different), which turned out to be unexpectedly easy to find. Not seeing anyone wearing a platinum ring, I took a moment to duck my head inside. It was surprisingly small, with one chair, a few hundred books on low shelves, and a musty smell.
I left no wiser than when I’d entered, and looked around; the place I was looking for was, I’d been told, near the library. I’m not sure what I was hoping for, exactly–that I’d stumble across Jules? That I’d find the room and it would be full of Dragonlords and I’d, uh, do something? I knew I at least wanted to see the place, but, yeah, I had no plan.
And I didn’t find the room, either; there were several doors in the area, and I didn’t feel inclined to open them; it could be an embarrassing conversation if any of the rooms were occupied–especially the one I was looking for. So there I was: Vlad Taltos, Easterner, Jhereg, sort of idly hanging around on the third floor of the Imperial Wing of the Palace, just like I belonged there. Oddly, I hadn’t felt at all uncomfortable until I formulated it to myself that way, then I felt a sudden urge to find the nearest exit as quickly as possible.
I didn’t. I mean, I was in exactly as much or as little danger as I had been in five seconds ago; suddenly realizing my position didn’t change that.
“You okay, Boss?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Nervous, for obvious reasons.”
“Boss, if you have no idea why you’re here, or what to do, and you’re nervous being here, why don’t we leave?”
“Stubbornness,” I said.
I leaned against a wall and tried to look like I belonged.
The halls were wide, the color of copper, though they were stone. It was an odd choice, but weirdly soothing. The library was just past a bend in the corridor. A long hallway to my left, another to my right, and a third, the way I’d come, was around a corner behind me. There was a constant cool breeze on the back of my neck that gave me goosebumps.
I could feel Loiosh’s nervousness, reflecting my own.
I glared back and forth down the hall but it didn’t seem apologetic.
A door opened in the corridor to my right, and a Teckla dressed in yellow and blue with a disheveled mop of curly red hair and absurdly long legs came out, looked at me, quickly turned his face away, and went walking down the hall.
Okay, now I knew which room it was, and I could be fairly certain there was some–what, officer? agent?–whatever inside. I was not inclined to meet him, but I could wait until he left, break in, and . . . .
And what?
What would I find? An empty room? Would they leave information just lying around? Seemed unlikely. Or–
Yes.
I spent a long time formulating my clever plan and getting all of its moving parts in order in my head–say, three seconds.
About ten steps to my left was a glass window. I went over and looked out: some distance below there seemed to be a small courtyard with no one in it. Perfect. I pulled off my cloak, draped the cloak over the window, and gave one, good, hard kick. The glass shattered, the shards falling into the courtyard where, it being empty, they had no chance to accidentally kill a Dragonlord or something. Too bad. It would be amusing if I were arrested for vandalizing the Imperial Palace; amusing, but I hoped to avoid it.
Twenty feet down the hall to the door.
“Ready?”
“Boss, I’m always ready for this stuff.”
“Timing will be tricky.”
“That’s your problem. If you had wings–“
“Yeah, yeah. Okay, let’s go.”
He climbed out of my cloak and onto my shoulder.
I took a deep breath, another, and–
Grabbed the handle, flung the door open, turned, and bolted down the hall to the library as fast as I could.
I heard yelling just about the time the library door closed behind me. I hoped the Empress wouldn’t pick this moment to decide it was a good time to relax with a trashy novel.
“Hee hee. I think he may have pissed himself. He’s standing up now, and chasing me with his sword–good thing the ceilings are high.”
“Careful Loiosh.”
“I got this, Boss.”
“What was he doing when you went in?”
“Sitting at a table, looking through a big stack of papers.”
“Perfect. Get him out of the room; he’s making enough noise that he’ll probably attract a guard pretty quickly.”
“He’s out the door, Boss. Heading toward you.”
“Can you get him turned around? I need him out of the line of sight of that room.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
I waited for maybe ten seconds, and then.
“Clear, Boss!”
Out the door, down the hall, in the other door.
Clean so far.
There was a single, long table of blond wood with a dozen comfortable looking chairs around it, and, yes! A sheaf of papers in front of one of them.
“Found what I was looking for. How much time do I have?”
“I think some guards are coming. Not much.”
I rifled through the papers–each one had a name at the top, another name below, an address, and notes I didn’t have time to read. The fifth name down was “Jules.”
Jules
Dobramil Bonta
SA Rinko far NE Jamie’s Silks E brn W&D bot fl
There was a lot of writing below that, but I didn’t have time to read it.
I guessed I could remember three names, maybe four, so I noted four at random, skipping down to the real names.
Renevesch, Konrad Szeltar, Hanna Toth, and Maximilian Schultz: one Teckla and three Easterners.
Then I got out of there.
I ran to the stairway as fast as I could, then said, “I’m clear, Loiosh. Out the window.”
“Good timing, Boss. Here they come.”
“Will you be okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
Once I was on the main floor I stopped, took a couple of deep breaths, and strolled out into the chaos of the Palace doing my best to look like I belonged. I made my way outside without getting too lost, and Loiosh came through the canopy of trees and landed on my shoulders.
“Piece of shrimp, Boss.”
“If you’re going for the old Eastern phrase, Loiosh, it’s piece of cake.”
“I like shrimp better. Don’t I deserve some?”
“Now that you mention it, sure. And so do I.”
There was a shrimp fryer not far from my area, so we went there, got a basket and a cup of lemon-butter, then walked up to Overlook Hill, found a bench, and watched the bay while eating the shrimp it had given us. If anyone thought it odd to see a jhereg carefully dipping battered shrimp into butter and delicately eating it while perched next to an armed Easterner, no one said anything. We did get a few stares, but they seemed more astonished than hostile, so we ignored them.
Then it was time to end the matter.
I licked my fingers in a dignified manner, brushed off my cloak, and headed for the Stone Bridge. It was very much the long way–both getting there, and getting to my destination after, but I had nothing better to do. Of course, the address was a problem. In the City, you can usually find a place if you know the address: Number 31 on Carpenter Street is going to be somewhere on Carpenter Street, possibly even between 10 and 50. Things aren’t that simple in South Adrilankha. Sometimes there are numbers on the house, sometimes not, sometimes more than one house has the same number, and, just because that doesn’t make things difficult enough, some streets have names, some don’t, and some have several names; and none of them are marked.
Most of the time, you understand, that isn’t a problem: You just say, “Hey, bring this to Tibor’s house,” and everyone in the neighborhood knows where Tibor lives. Nevertheless, it is possible, to describe the location of a particular house well enough for someone to find it. For one thing, South Adrilankha, like the City itself, is divided into districts. So far as I know, they aren’t recognized by any city or county authority, but they’re pretty rigid for all of that. Jules was listed as living in an a part of South Adrilankha called Rinko, which my grandfather told me was a corruption of a word in some Eastern language that meant apple orchard. There was probably an apple orchard somewhere around there at some point.
So you name the district, the part of the district, the street if it has a name, and the number if it has one. Whether it does not, you can’t rely on those, as I said, so you name a landmark and give a direction, and a distinguishing feature of the house.
In the northeast part of Rinko I found a shop with a sign saying, in Northwestern and another language I didn’t know, “Jamie’s Silks.” Now I knew how to say “silks” in some language or other. I went east from there, and soon came to a brown wattle and daub two story house, and there I was. See? It’s easy if you know how and get lucky.
I stood in front of the door and knocked like an Easterner. A moment later the door opened, and there he was: Jules. Or rather,
“Dobramil Bonta,” I said. “May I come in?” I gave him my warmest smile because I wanted him scared. I wasn’t too worried; crutches make poor weapons in a tight space.
His mouth opened and closed and his face turned pale. I kept my smile in place and, using it like a shield, stepped into the room, forcing him back.
“I–“
“Shhh,” I said. “Wait until we’re inside.”
There was a stairway on my right, a hallway ending in a door straight ahead, and an open door on the left. We went in; it was small, musty, and dark; but clean. There were a couple of rough wooden chairs and what had once been a sofa but was now missing a leg and all the cushions; it may have been useful for something, but not sitting on. I sat myself in one of the chairs, my smile still in place. I made a show of looking around and said, “Hoping to move to nicer digs?”
“I–“
“Good plan. Me too.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Here’s the deal. I got some names of some of the leaders. I give them to you, you give them to your friends on the Third Floor of the Imperial Wing, and we split the reward. Don’t try to cheat me. Do we have a deal?”
“Uh. That is, um, who are you?”
“My name is Vlad.”
He stared at me for a moment, then nodded. “All right. You have a list?”
“Not written.”
“Of course. I have a good memory.”
“Renevesch, Szeltar Konrad, Toth Hanna, and Maximilian Schultz.”
He repeated them back to me. “Those are the leaders?”
“Some of the leaders,” I said. “Remember, fifty-fifty on the reward. Do not try to get fancy.”
“I understand. How did you find me?”
“How do you think?”
“They gave you my name? Then why don’t you just–“
“No, no. I started asking questions once I found out about Chilla. I started looking.”
“Chilla?”
“The physicker. Why did you kill her, by the way?”
“While she waiting for the cast to dry, I heard her talking to one of the other patients. He described me, identified me as working with the Empire.”
“Yeah, I get it,” I said. “A shame, but it needed to be done.”
He nodded.
“Names again,” I said.
“Renevesch, Szeltar Konrad, Toth Hanna, and Maximilian Schultz.”
I gave him a nod, turned, and headed out.
“Boss?” said Loiosh once we were back on the street.
“Yeah?”
“I thought you were going to kill him.”
“What makes you think I didn’t?”
“Is there something I missed?”
“I just gave him the names of four informers, that he is going to turn in claiming they are leaders of uprising. What happens then?”
“Oh. Huh. It’d be interesting if they didn’t recognize the names and made the informers disappear. Not likely, though.”
“No. Doesn’t matter. I’ll give Cawti the names. That should do it.”
“You sure they’ll kill him, Boss?”
“At least they’ll make things uncomfortable for him. I’ll give his name to Cawti, too, just in case.”
“I thought you weren’t on her side in this?”
“Doesn’t matter. I hate informers.”
There was still black bunting hanging from the window at the physicker’s house. Outside, between the front of the house and street, was a small garden. I recognized some of the herbs as the same ones my grandfather grew. There was thyme, hatchetbloom, koelsch, rosemary, widowsbark, and a heavy, polished piece of obsidian. I turned it over and, yeah, there were bloodstains on it.
Would Lotsi want it back? Not my call to make.
I knocked on the door.
#
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http://dreamcafe.com/2026/05/01/jules-a-chapter-of-chreotha/
https://dreamcafe.com/?p=8356
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