Free Lord of the Silent Kingdom by Glen Cook Page A

around doing nothing. Blaming their ill fortune on anybody but themselves.
    “Ain’t we all? Anyway, all the names the ghost gives are names of gods that had something to do with the Wells of Ihrian. Very blasphemous. Toward the end, this guy — whose name in the story is the same as the name of the poet — he gets into a big romp with a whore who turns out to be his sister, Alma. It’s pretty funny. But The Lay of Ihrian was banned by the Church. Though nobody probably pays any attention except in Brothe. Principatè Doneto says there’s probably only four or five copies in the city but the story is famous up north. Like around here, I guess.”
    “I think we’re close.”
    “Keep an eye out. This could be the tricky part.”
    Pella let them catch up. “That’s Karagos Middle Street up ahead, Your Honors. Cutting across. But I never heard of no House of the Ten Gallons.”
    Ask around,” Hecht suggested.
    Yes, Your Honors. Right away. What did you mean about Alma, Your Honor?” he asked Ghort.
    Nothing, really. There’s a poem with a Pellapront Versulius in it. He has a sister named Alma.”
    The boy gulped some air.
    “Shit,” Ghort said. “You got a sister named Alma?”
    Pella nodded. He was a gaunt little thing, small for his age. His eyes seemed exaggeratedly large.
    “Find out about the house,” Hecht urged.
    “That’s spooky,” Ghort said when the boy was out of earshot.
    “It is unusual,” Hecht conceded. “But not a mystery we need to solve.”
    “No. Hey. Somebody knows where the place is.”
    “Good. It’s late. We need to get off the street.”
    Pella came back. “Your Honors didn’t have it right. It’s the House of the Ten Galleons.”
    “That makes more sense. Here.”
    “My sister would make you a better deal.”
    Hecht recalled the boy offering his sister on the quayside. “Another tie to the poem. I take it the House of the Ten Galleons is a sporting house.”
    Pella nodded, not conceding the possibility that his charges would be unaware of that fact.
    Ghort observed, “An interesting place to find our friend.”
    “Indeed.” Members of the Brotherhood took the same vow of celibacy as less warlike priests. But the Brotherhood tried to observe its vows. All of them. Which was a source of frequent and abiding friction with the rest of the Church.
    “We’ll think about your sister later,” Hecht said. “We need to see a man who lives at the House of the Ten Galleons.”
    “Really? He must be a eunuch, Your Honor.”
    “Show us where.”
    Pella showed. Ghort gave him a coin and told him to wait. “We’ll be right back out. We’ll need you some more.” Once they were away, he asked, “We will be right back out, won’t we? You didn’t get any special instructions in that mess, did you?”
    “Just to give the packet to a man named Beomond. Using a set of signs and countersigns.”
    “What’s he look like?”
    “Six and a half feet tall, almost as wide, with a big scar on his face. Plus a wine stain birthmark that starts on his left cheek and runs down his throat and under his shirt.”
    “Sounds like a beauty. Good evening, sir,” Ghort told the man who responded to their knock.
    Hecht offered, “We came from Heber,” which was the formula included in his instructions.
    “Confuckinggratulations. Show me some silver.”
    That was not the appropriate response.
    A small, high voice piped, “Out of the way, Tiny.”
    Tiny moved. A truly tiny, wrinkled old woman whose coloring suggested origins far to the east stepped forward. “Where are you from?” Her Firaldian was flawless, with a Sonsan accent. She must be a Chaldarean refugee from the Kaifate of Qasr al-Zed. There were countless pockets of non-Episcopal Chaldareans scattered around the Realm of Peace.
    “Heber.”
    “Welcome, countrymen. Come in. Can I offer you refreshments?”
    “Coffee, perhaps.” All part of the sign-countersign, but here the old woman broke the rhythm. “We can’t afford