meet Zigira, the resident wit and wise-ass
“The foreign sorcerer, he said you’re old friends,” the med told her suddenly.
“Huh? Oh. Oh, yes, I’ve known him, oh, fifteen years now. Almost half my life.” The admission made her stomach plummet. There had been one moment, right before he sent her to sleep, when she wanted to tell him. The sheer surprise of the epiphany drove her lips open, forcing out his name. That moment had passed. She felt now as irresolute as ever.
“If you don’t mind my asking…?”
“Huh?” she said again. “Oh, how do I know Japhet? I went into an inn a day up the pass between Amonteen and Sibastian. Snows came a month early that year, so there were lots of people still on the road, heavy-laden carts and all. Trapped, the lot of us, at some little pisshole way station. The place was full up to the rafters and people sleeping in the haylofts. I go to eat dinner, and every seat in the house is taken. All but the five extra stools around one man’s table, who’s sitting there by himself. Not even eating: asshole’s reading a book and sipping on a glass of whiskey.
“Well, the solution was obvious to me. The innkeeper tried to stop me, told me who he was. But—”
“You knew of him?” he cut in keenly. He had sidled closer to the edge of the bed.
Zigira shrugged. “’Course. He has Doulats vog.”
“Which means?”
She scrutinized his face, but he seemed genuinely interested. Apparently her people’s barbarian customs weren’t totally worthless provided they involved Japhet. “Doulats was one of my people. Lived thousands of years before the Kula Ze Ahn, some say before the Frees were built. He invented writing, and the first thing he wrote was his name. We sacrificed being free for being civilized, so names are real important to us. We never have been sure it was a worthy trade, but we prize names anyway, because they’re what we got in exchange.
“For us, a second name is proof you’re an adult, worthy of respect. You have to be Someone the Something to be taken seriously. I was born Zigira, but it was only when I became Karstra Zigira that I got to be worth listening to. That’s how it usually works.
“To say someone has the name of Doulats, that’s saying they’re a legend in their own time. They doesn’t need to prove themselves deserving of trust or respect. He ain’t Japhet the Cunning or Japhet the Bold or Japhet the anything. He’s just Japhet, and that says it all. You see?” The med nodded. “Happens, oh, but once a century or so. Some hero does something especially mad, usually. Not a distinction we grant those not our own normally, but Japhet’s a law unto himself, you may have noticed.”
This characterization made the med smile fondly. She had yet to come to terms with this attitude. Her people respected the man, sure, but they also made a point to stay out of his way. The Hidthrath looked on him like a beautiful, snow-covered mountain: something to be admired from afar, because if you went messing with it, it might all crash down on you.
Not so the Liathm. “What did he do?”
“Well, no one remembers for certain. It was a long time ago now and he’s always been coy about it. We have half a hundred stories. You buy me a few drinks one day, maybe I’ll share some with you.”
The look on his face suggested that, had she not been supine in her bed, he would have demanded they sally forth on the instant. “You sat down at his table anyway?”
“Oh, yeah. I was ‘bout eighteen at the time. Newly named an adult and just as full of unwarranted pride as you might expect. I said to him, ‘You may be a legend, and that gives you a right to a whole ream of stories all to yourself, but I don’t see why you need the table as well.’ Well, he looks up, all surprise. I hadn’t counted on the eyes, hadn’t understood just how spooky they would be. I don’t mind telling you, I about pissed myself when I looked into them the first time. He was mad, too. Just for half a second, but it stopped my heart dead. Then he laughed and kicked a stool toward me and said, ‘By all means.’ We’ve been friends ever since.”
She chuckled a little at the memory and the med joined her. Then he showed himself out, taking his bag with him. The moment the door thumped closed behind him, her humor fell away, leaving her almost as wretched and disheartened as she ought to feel an hour after being cut and cursed. An old friend, yes. And a true one, over all the years they’d known one another.
Now, she wasn’t just wondering if she was betraying him: she was wondering if she was helping another old friend betray him too.
from The Tale of a Vacant House
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