by Steven Brust
Savn ignored him. He knelt down into the slowly flowing water and filled up the lamp.
“Savn!”
His sister whispered, “What are you doing?”
“Wait,” he whispered back. “Don’t move.”
He stood up, and as best he could, walked quickly and firmly toward where he had last seen His Lordship, holding before him the lamp filled with Dark Water, stagnant and contained. When stagnant and contained, it can be used to weaken and repel the undead. . . .
His Lordship’s voice came from directly in front of him. “What are—Ishtvan! Kill this Teckla brat for me.”
Savn felt his hand shaking, but he continued walking forward.
The Jhereg answered, “I can’t see anymore.”
“Then make a light. Hurry! I can’t do anything while—”
“The Easterner—”
His Lordship made an obscene suggestion concerning the Easterner, which Savn noticed indifferently as he continued to walk forward. He hardly blinked when a soft light filled the room, and, oddly enough, it hardly mattered that he could now see His Lordship, about five feet away, walking slowly backward, and glaring.
Savn wondered, in a familiar, detached way, how he could survive an attack by a Jhereg assassin. But the attack didn’t come, because at that instant, Loiosh left Savn’s shoulder.
Savn couldn’t help it—he turned and watched as Loiosh and his mate simultaneously attacked. Evidently, His Lordship’s spells that had kept them away were now gone. Ishtvan snarled and cut at the jhereg with the Morganti dagger. He turned, and apparently realized, at the same time as Savn did, that he was offering his back to Vlad, and that he was within range of the Easterner’s sword.
He tried to spin back, but it was already too late. It made Savn wince to see Vlad, in his condition, execute a maneuver so demanding, but the Easterner managed it—the point of his sword penetrated deeply into the assassin’s back right over his heart. At the same time, Polyi was shrieking—“Savn!” and Vlad continued forward, falling limply onto his face as the assassin screamed and the Morganti dagger went flying into the air—
—and the lamp was struck from Savn’s hand to land and shatter on the floor. He turned in time to see His Lordship recovering from delivering a kick that must have been very difficult for him, judging by the look of concentration and effort on his face, and Savn felt an impossible combination of pride and shame in having caused His Lordship such distress. He wondered what His Lordship would do now, but—
—he didn’t know, because the assassin’s light-spell faded, and the room was suddenly pitched into darkness. It seemed that proximity to the Dark Water had taken His Lordship’s magical powers, but hadn’t actually hurt him—he could still kick. Which meant he might also be able to simply grab Savn and throttle him. Savn started to back away, but he was struck a blow that knocked him onto his back and caused him to crack his head sharply on the floor.
He decided he was glad he hadn’t hit his head harder, when he realized that he had hit his head harder, that he was sick and dizzy and was almost certainly about to die, and, worst of all, he wasn’t certain that he didn’t deserve to.
It came to him that he had once again achieved the state of witchcraft, this time by the accident of bumping his head. He didn’t have anything to do, but it was much more pleasant here, flying over walls, and cavorting in the air like a disembodied jhereg. There were terrible things happening to his body, and he had done terrible things himself, but they didn’t matter anymore. He could—
There, before him, was His Lordship, grinning a terrible grin, his hand looming large, ready to smash him down as Savn would swat an insect.
I am not an insect, cried Savn in a voice no one could hear as, in helpless rage, he flew right into His Lordship’s face, defying him, and waiting for his consciousness to end, for the sleep from which there is no waking.
He felt something break, but it didn’t seem to matter, even though it was himself. He hoped somehow Vlad would survive, but he didn’t see—
—he didn’t see anything, because the room was dark, and his thoughts, all that remained, were becoming scattered, misty, and going away.
What he asked was impossible.
* * *
Not physically impossible; the evil thing spun and twirled right in front of her, and plucking it out of the air would be no problem at all, even in the total darkness. She could feel exactly where it was all along its path through the air. But it was still impossible. To touch such a thing was—
But her mate was insistent. Her lover was saying that if she didn’t, the Provider would die. She didn’t understand how this could be, or why it would be too late if she didn’t do it now, as the evil thing reached the top of its arc and began to fall to the ground.
She didn’t understand what it was, but she hated the idea of coming near it more than she had ever hated anything in her life. Did he understand that—
And her mate told her that there was no more time, she must get it now, because the undead soft one was going to kill the Provider, and, even if he didn’t, couldn’t she hear the footsteps of more of the soft ones coming? She should trust him, he said—these were not friends.
And what was she supposed to do when she had it? she wondered, but she nevertheless did as she was asked—she took it from the air, wrapping her feet around the bone part, trying to keep as far from the metal part as she could and—
Is that what she was supposed to do? How?
The other soft one, the one the Provider had been spending so much time with, the one who had saved him, was somewhere near here, but she couldn’t see him.
Her mate could feel him? Well enough to know where his hand was? To direct her to . . . Oh, very well, then.
And so he guided her, and she went where he said, and, at the right time, she let the evil thing fall into the hand of the soft one who had saved the Provider—although it seemed odd to her that someone who would do that would have a use for such a thing. What would he do with it?
Although she couldn’t see, she was able to tell what use he had for it—he plunged it into the side of the other soft one, the undead, who was on top of him, strangling the life out of him.
The odd thing was that both of them screamed—first the one who had been stabbed, then the one who did the stabbing, and they both screamed where she could hear it more within her mind than in the room, and both screams went on for a long time.
In fact, the one who was still alive didn’t stop screaming with his mind at all, even after he had stopped screaming with his voice. He kept screaming and screaming, even after the Provider managed to make a small amount of light appear, and to gather them all together, and to take them all far, far away from the place where the evil thing lay with the two bodies in the dark cavern.
Epilogue
THE MINSTREL SENT THE Easterner a look containing equal portions of disgust and contempt. It didn’t seem to bother him; he was used to such things. But he avoided looking at the girl who sat by the fire, holding her brother’s hand. The two jhereg sat complacently on the Easterner’s shoulders, not terribly bothered by anything now that—in their reptilian opinions—the crisis was past. They finished up the scraps of the roasted athyra.
“Well?” said Sara.
“I’m glad you made it here.”
“Your jhereg are good guides,” said Sara. “I had a pretty good idea what they wanted.”
“I thought you might. Thanks for coming.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. And repeated, “Well?”
“Well what? If you’re asking after my health, breathing doesn’t hurt as much as it did a couple of days ago.”
“I’m not asking after your health, I’m asking after his.”
Vlad apparently didn’t need to follow her glance to know of whom she was speaking—Savn sat staring into the fire, oblivious of the conversation, and of everything else going on around him.
“His health is fine. But, as you can see
—”
“Yes. As I can see.”
“I suppose I’m being hunted as a kidnapper.”
“Among other things, yes. The village Speaker has appealed to the Empire, and he’s been ranting about gathering the entire region to hunt for you tree by tree and stone by stone. And their parents are in agony, wondering where they are, imagining you’ve killed them or used them for some Eastern ritual or something. I don’t know why I don’t summon—”
“Summon who? The Jhereg? That’s been tried.”
“Yes, I suppose it has. They found the body next to His Lordship’s. And they found the village physicker there, too.”
“Wag? Really? Was he dead?”
“No, barely alive. Did you do that to him?”
“Do what?”
She searched his eyes, trying to see if he was lying. Then she shrugged. “He’d been tortured.”
“Oh. No, I imagine that Loraan and the assassin did that. It makes sense, at any rate; that’s probably how they found me.”
“Well, he’s going to live. He says Savn physicked him. The child will be a good physicker, if he ever comes out of it.”
“Yes. If.”
Polyi glared at him. Sara guessed that there hadn’t been much small talk between Vlad and the girl in the two days since the death of Baron Smallcliff.
Sara said, “So Loraan and the Jhereg found you. How did you beat them?”
“I didn’t. He did.”
Sara’s eyes turned to the Teckla boy, and widened. “He did?”
“Yes. He nullified Loraan’s magic, helped distract the assassin, and, in the end, killed Loraan.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I couldn’t care less.”
Sara chewed her lip. “Exactly what happened to him, anyway?”
“I don’t know for certain. My guess is that the shock of even holding, much less using, a Morganti dagger was pretty severe, and I think he hit his head and was dazed before that happened, and then he killed his own lord. He woke up after I teleported us out of there, stared at his hand, bit it, screamed, and hasn’t said a word since.”
“Oh,” said the minstrel.
“He’ll do what he’s told, and he’ll eat, and he keeps himself clean.”
“And that’s all.”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to keep moving. It would be a shame to let the townsfolk kill me after escaping Loraan and the Jhereg.”
“And you want me to see to it the boy and his sister are returned home?”
“No, only the sister.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it. The boy was seen with me, his friends tried to beat him up, and everyone’s going to figure out that he at least helped kill His Lordship, who was a pretty well-liked bastard, for an undead. What sort of life is the kid going to have around here?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that he saved my life, several times, and his only reward was being given such a shock that he has gone mad.”
“What can you do about it?”
“I can try to cure him, and keep him safe in the meantime.”
“You’re going to wander around, running from the Jhereg, and keep a child with you?”
“Yes. At least until he’s cured. After that, I don’t think he’ll be a child anymore, and he can make up his own mind.”
“What makes you think he won’t hate you?”
“He probably will.”
“What makes you think you can cure him?”
Vlad shrugged. “I have some ideas. I’ll try them. And I know people, if I get desperate.”
“So you’re going to take him away from his family—”
“That’s right. Until he’s cured. Then it’s up to him.”
Sara stared at him for a long moment, then burst out, “You’re crazy!”
“No, just in debt. And intending to discharge the debt.”
“I—”
“You can take the girl back to her family, and explain what I’m doing.”
“They’ll never let you do this. They’ll hunt you down and kill you.”
“How? I’ve avoided the Jhereg for more than two years, I can certainly avoid a few peasants long enough to see the boy cured.”
Sara turned and looked at Savn, who continued to stare into the fire, and Polyi, who looked at her brother with red eyes. Sara said, “Polyi, what do you think of all this?”
“I don’t know,” she said in a small voice. “But he did this to Savn, so he ought to cure him, and then bring him back.”
“That’s my opinion,” said Vlad.
“Don’t you realize,” said Sara slowly, “that traveling with the boy is going to make you ten times—a hundred times as easy a target for the Jhereg?”
“Yes.”
“Work fast,” said Sara.
“I intend to,” said Vlad.
“Do you even have supplies for the journey?”
“I have gold, and I can teleport, and I can steal.”
Sara shook her head.
Vlad stood up and reached a hand out. “Savn, come on.”
The boy obediently stood, and Sara glanced at his eyes; they seemed empty. “Can you really heal his mind?” she asked.
“One way or another,” said Vlad. “I will.”
Polyi stood and hugged her brother, who seemed not to notice. She stepped back, gave Vlad a look impossible to describe, went over to Sara, and nodded.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Easterner,” said Sara.
“You could wish me luck.”
“Yes. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
He took the boy’s arm, and led him off into the woods, walking slowly as if his wounds still bothered him. Sara put her arm around the girl, who didn’t resist, and they watched the Easterner, the human, and the two jhereg until they disappeared. “Good luck,” Sara repeated softly to their backs.
Then she turned to the girl and took her hand. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you home. Your Harvest Festival is beginning, and the gods alone know what sort of animals live out here.”
The girl said nothing, but held onto Sara’s hand, tightly.
ORCA
In memory of my brother, Leo Brust, 1954–1994
Acknowledgments
My thanks to the Scribblies: Emma Bull, Pamela Dean, and Will Shetterly for their help with this one, and also to Terri Windling, Susan Allison, and Fred A. Levy Haskell. Thanks as well to Teresa Nielsen Hayden, who recommended a book that turned out to be vital; to David Green, for sharing some theories; and, as always, to Adrian Charles Morgan.
And to the fan who actually suggested the whole thing in the first place: Thanks, Mom.
Prologue
My Dear Cawti:
I’m sorry it has taken me so long to answer your letter, but the gods of Coincidence make bad correspondents of us all; I am not unaware that the passing of a few weeks to you is a long time—as long as the passing of years is to me, and this is long indeed when one is uncertain—so I will plead the excuse that I found your note when I returned from traveling, and will answer your question at once: Yes, I have seen your husband, or the man who used to be your husband, or however you would describe him. Yes, I have seen Vlad—and that is why it has taken me so long to write back to you; I was just visiting him in response to his request for assistance in a small matter.
I can understand your concern for him, Cawti; indeed, I will not try to pretend that he isn’t still in danger from the Organization with which we are both, one way or another, still associated. They want him, and I fear someday they will get him, but as of now he is alive and, I can even say, well.
I don’t pretend that I think this knowledge will satisfy you.
You will want the details, or at least those details I can divulge. Very well, I consent, both for the sake of our friendship and because we share a concern for
the mustached fellow with reptiles on his shoulders. We will arrange a time and a place; I will be there and tell you what I can—in person, because some things are better heard face-to-face than page-to-eye. And, no, I will not tell you everything, because, just as there are things that you wouldn’t want me to tell him, there are things he wouldn’t want me to tell you—and, come to that, there are things I don’t want to tell you, either. It is a mark of my love for you both that I keep these secrets, and trust you with those I can, so don’t be angry!
Come, dear Cawti, write back at once (you remember that I prefer not to communicate psychically), and we will arrange to be alone and I will tell you enough—I hope—for your peace of mind. I look forward to seeing you and yours again, and, until that time, I remain,
Faithfully,
Kiera
1
VLAD KNEW ALMOST AT once that I was in disguise, because I told him so. When he called out my name, I said, “Dammit, Vlad, I’m in disguise.”
He looked me over in that way of his—eyes flicking here and there apparently at random—then said, “Me, too.”
He was wearing brown leather, rather than the grey and black of the House of the Jhereg he’d been wearing when I last saw him; but he was still an Easterner, still had his mustache, and still had a pair of jhereg on his shoulders. He was, I assumed, letting me know that my disguise wasn’t terribly effective. I didn’t press the issue, but said, “Who’s the boy?”
“My catamite,” he said, deadpan. He faced him then and said, “Savn, meet Kiera the Thief.”
The boy made no response at all—didn’t even seem to hear—which was a bit creepy.
I said, “You’re joking, right?”
He smiled sadly and said, “Yes, Kiera, I’m joking.” Loiosh, the male jhereg, shifted its weight and was probably laughing at me. I held out my arm to it; it flew across the four feet that separated us and allowed me to scratch its snakelike chin. The female, Rocza, watched us closely but made no move; perhaps she didn’t remember me.
“Why the disguise?” he said.