by Steven Brust
“Yeah. I saw one of Laris’s people and delivered it. Word came back that it was fine with him.”
“Good. Now, if Kragar would just show up, I could find out where—”
“I’m right here, boss.”
“Eh? Oh. Jerk. Get lost, N’aal.”
“Where am I?” he said, as he headed out the door. Kragar flipped it shut with his foot and stretched out.
“Where is it set up for?” I asked him.
“A place called ‘The Terrace.’ Good place. You won’t get out for less than a gold apiece.”
“I can stand it,” I said.
“They make a mean pepper sausage, boss.”
“Now, how would you know that?”
“I hit their garbage dump once in a while.”
Ask a stupid question—
“Okay,” I continued to Kragar, “Did you arrange protection for me?”
He nodded. “Two. Varg and Temek.”
“They’ll do.”
“Also, I’ll be there. Just sort of being quiet and hanging around. I doubt he’ll even notice me.” He smirked.
“Fair enough. Any advice?”
He shook his head. “I’m as new at this as you are.”
“Okay. I’ll do my best. Any other business?”
“No. Everything’s running smooth, as usual.”
“May it stay that way,” I said, rapping my knuckles on the desk. He looked at me, puzzled.
“An Eastern custom,” I explained. “It’s supposed to bring good luck.”
He still looked puzzled, but didn’t say anything.
I took out a dagger and started flipping it.
* * * *
Varg was of a nastier school than I. He was one of those people who just reek of danger—the kind who would kill you as soon as look at you. He was Kragar’s size, which is just a bit short, and had eyes that slanted upward, indicating that there was Dzur blood somewhere in his ancestry. His hair was shorter than most, dark, and worn slicked back. When you spoke with him, he held himself perfectly motionless, making no extraneous gestures of any kind, and he’d stare at you with those narrow, bright blue eyes. His face was without emotion, except when he was beating someone up. Then his face would twist into a Jhereg sneer that was among the best I’d ever seen, and he projected enough hate to make an army of Teckla run the other way.
He had absolutely no sense of humor.
Temek was tall and so thin you could hardly see him if you came at him sideways. He had deep, brown eyes—friendly eyes. He was a weapons master. He could use an axe, a stick, a dagger, a throwing knife, any kind of sword, shuriken, darts, poisons of all types, rope, or even a Verra-be-damned piece of paper. Also, he was a pretty good sorcerer for a Jhereg outside of the Bitch Patrol—the Left Hand. He was the only enforcer I had that I knew, with one hundred percent certainty, had done “work”—because Kragar had given him the job at my orders.
A month before this business with Laris started, a certain Dzurlord had borrowed a large sum from someone who worked for me, and was refusing to pay it back. Now this Dzurlord was what you call “established”; that is, he was considered a hero by the House of the Dzur, and had earned it several times over. He was a wizard (which is like a sorcerer, only more so), and more than just a little bit good with a blade. So he figured that there was nothing we could do if he decided not to pay us. We sent people over to plead with him to be reasonable, but he was rude enough to kill them. This cost me fifteen hundred gold for my half of the revivification on one of them (the moneylender, of course, paid the other half), and five thousand gold to the family of the second, who couldn’t be revivified.
Now I did not consider these sums to be trifling. Also, the guy we’d lost had been a friend at one time. All in all, I was irritated. I told Kragar, “I do not want this individual to pollute the world any longer. See that this is attended to.”
Kragar told me that he’d hired Temek and paid him thirty-six hundred gold—not unreasonable for a target as formidable as this Dzur was. Well, four days later—four days, mark you, not four weeks—someone stuck a javelin through the back of Lord Hero’s head and pinned his face to a wall with it. Also, his left hand was missing.
When the Empire investigated, all they learned was that his hand had been blown off by his own wizard staff exploding, which also accounted for the failure of all his defensive spells. The investigators shrugged and said, “Mario did it.” Temek was never even questioned . . .
* * * *
So I brought Temek and Varg in the next morning and had them close the door and sit down.
“Gentlemen,” I explained, “I am going to a restaurant called ‘The Terrace’ in a few hours. I am going to have a meal with a certain man and speak to him. There is a chance that he will wish to do me bodily harm. You are to prevent this from happening. Clear?”
“Yes,” said Varg.
“No problem, boss,” said Temek. “If he tries anything, we’ll make pieces out of him.”
“Good.” This was the kind of talk I liked. “I want an escort there and back, too.”
“Yes,” said Varg.
“No extra charge,” said Temek.
“We leave here fifteen minutes before noon.”
“We’ll be here,” said Temek. He turned to Varg. “Wanna look the place over first?”
“Yes,” said Varg.
Temek turned back to me. “If we aren’t back on time, boss, my woman lives above Cabron and Sons, and she’s got a thing for Easterners.”
“That’s kind of you,” I told him. “Scatter.”
He left. Varg dropped his eyes to the floor briefly, which is what he used for a bow, and followed him. When the door had closed, I counted to thirty, slowly, then went past my secretary, and out into the street. I saw their retreating backs.
“Follow them, Loiosh. Make sure they do what they said they were going to.”
“Suspicious, aren’t you?”
“Not suspicious; paranoid. Go.”
He went. I followed his progress for a ways, then went back inside. I sat down in my chair and got out a brace of throwing knives that I keep in my desk. I swiveled left to face the target, and started throwing them.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Chapter Three
“This Laris teckla is no teckla.”
“Hey, boss! Let me in.”
“Coming, Loiosh.”
I wandered out of the office, into the shop, and opened the door. Loiosh landed on my shoulder.
“Well?”
“Just like they said, boss. They went in, and I watched through the doorway. Varg stood and looked around, Temek got a glass of water. That’s all. They didn’t talk to anyone, and it didn’t look like they were in psionic communication.”
“Okay. Good.”
By then I was back in the office. I consulted the Imperial Clock through my link and found that I still had over an hour. It’s the waiting that really gets to you in this business.
I leaned back, put my feet up on the desk, and stared at the ceiling. It was made of wooden slats that used to be painted. A preservation spell would have cost about thirty gold, and would have kept the paint fresh for at least twenty years. But “God-boss” hadn’t done it. Now the paint, a sick white, was chipping and falling. An Athyra would probably have taken this as a sign. Fortunately I wasn’t an Athyra.
Unfortunately, Easterners have always been superstitious fools.
“Boss? Varg and Temek.”
“Send them in.”
They entered. “Right on time, boss!” said Temek. Varg just looked at me.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s go.”
The three of us left the office, went into the shop. I was heading toward the door when—
“Hold it a minute, boss.” I knew that tone of telepathy, so I stopped.
“What is it, Loiosh?”
“Me first.”
“Oh? Oh. All right.”
I stepped to the side. I was about to tell
Varg to open the door when he came up and did it. I noted that. Loiosh flew out.
“All clear, boss.”
“Okay.”
I nodded. Varg stepped out first, then I, then Temek. We turned left and strolled up Copper Lane
. My grandfather, while teaching me Eastern fencing, had warned me against being distracted by shadows. I told him, “Noish-pa, there are no shadows near the Empire. The sky is always—”
“I know, Vladimir, I know. Don’t be distracted by shadows. Concentrate on the target.”
“Yes, Noish-pa.”
I don’t know why that occurred to me, just then.
We reached Malak Circle
and walked around it to the right, then headed up Lower Kieron Road
. I was in enemy territory. It looked just like home.
Stipple Road joined Lower Kieron at an angle, coming in from the southwest. Just past this point, on the left, was a low stone building nestled in between a cobbler’s shop and an inn. Across the street was a three-story house, divided into six flats.
The low building was set back about forty feet from the street, and there was a terrace with maybe a dozen small tables set up on it. Four of these were occupied. Three of them we ignored, because there were women or kids at them. The fourth, close to the door, had one man, in the black and gray of House Jhereg. He might as well have been wearing a sign saying “enforcer.”
We noted him and continued. Varg walked inside first. While we waited, Temek glanced around openly, looking like a tourist at the Imperial Palace.
Varg came out and nodded. Loiosh flew in and perched at the back of an unoccupied booth. “Looks good, boss.”
I entered, and stopped just past the threshold. I wanted to let my eyes adjust to the dim light. I also wanted to turn and bolt back home. Instead, I took a couple of deep breaths and walked in.
As the inviter, it was up to me to select the table. I found one against the back wall. I sat so I could watch the entire room (I noticed a couple more of Laris’s people in the process), while Varg and Temek took a table about fifteen feet away. It had an unobstructed view of mine, yet was politely out of earshot.
At precisely noon, a middle-aged (say around a thousand) Jhereg walked into the room. He was of medium height, average girth. His face was nondescript. He wore a medium-heavy blade at his side and a full cloak. There were none of the telltale signs of the assassin about him. I saw no bulges where weapons were likely to be hidden, his eyes didn’t move as an assassin’s would, he didn’t hold himself with the constant readiness that I, or any other assassin, would recognize. Yet—
Yet he had something else. He was one of those rare people who radiates power. His eyes were steady, but cold. His arms were relaxed at his sides, his cloak thrown back. His hands looked perfectly normal, yet I was aware that I feared them.
I was an assassin, trying to be a boss. Laris had maybe “worked” once or twice, but he was a boss. He was made to run Jhereg businesses. He would command loyalty, treat his people well, and suck every copper piece possible from everything he had a hand in. If things had worked out differently I might have gone with Laris instead of Tagichatn, and he and I could have done well together. It was a shame.
He slid in across from me, bowing and smiling warmly. “Baronet Taltos,” he said. “Thank you for the invitation. I don’t get here often enough; it’s a good place.”
I nodded. “It’s my pleasure, my lord. I’ve heard it highly spoken of. I’m told it’s very well-managed.”
He smiled at that, knowing that I knew, and bowed his head to acknowledge the compliment. “I’m told you know something of the restaurant business yourself, Baronet.”
“Call me Vlad. Yes, a little bit. My father—”
We were interrupted by the waiter. Laris said, “The pepper sausage is particularly good.”
“See, boss, I—”
“Shut up, Loiosh.”
“So I’ve heard.” I told the waiter, “Two please,” and turned back to Laris. “A red wine, I think, my lord. Per—”
“Laris,” he corrected.
“Laris. Perhaps a Kaavren?”
“Excellent.”
I nodded to the enforcer—excuse me, the “waiter”—who bowed and left. I gave Laris as warm a smile as I could. “This would be a nice kind of place to run,” I told him.
“You think so?” he said.
I nodded. “It’s quiet, a good, steady clientele—that’s the important thing, you know. To have regular customers. This place has been here a long time, hasn’t it?”
“Since before the Interregnum, I’m told.”
I nodded as if I’d known it all along. “Now some people,” I said, “would want to expand this place—you know, add an extension, or another floor—but why? As it is, it brings in a good living. People like it. I’ll bet you that if they expanded it, it would be out of business in five years. But some people don’t understand that. That’s why I admire the owners of this place.”
Laris sat and listened to my monologue with a small smile playing at his lips, nodding occasionally. He understood what I was saying. Around the time I finished, the waiter showed up with the wine. He gave it to me to open; I poured some for Laris to approve. He nodded solemnly. I filled his glass, then mine.
He held the glass up to eye level and looked into it, rotating it by the stem. Khaav’n reds are full wines, so I imagine none of the light penetrated. He lowered the glass and looked at me, leaning forward.
“What can I say, Vlad? Some guy’s been working for me for a long time. One of the people who helped me organize the area. A good guy. He comes up to me and says, ‘Hey, boss, can I start up a game?’
“What am I supposed to tell him, Vlad? I can’t say no to a guy like that, can I? But if I put him anywhere in my area, I’ll be cutting into the business of other people who’ve been with me a long time. That’s not fair to them. So I looked around a bit. You’ve only got a couple of games going, and there’s plenty of business, so I figure, ‘Hey, he’ll never even notice.’
“I should have checked with you first, I know. I do apologize.”
I nodded. I’m not sure what I expected, but this wasn’t it. When I told him that expanding into my area would be a mistake, he came back by claiming that he wasn’t doing any such thing—that it was just a one-time favor for someone. Should I believe this? And, if so, should I let him get away with it?
“I understand, Laris. But, if you don’t mind my asking, what if it happens again?”
He nodded as if he’d been expecting the question. “When my friend explained to me that you had visited the place and seemed very unhappy about it, I realized what I’d done. I was just trying to word an apology to you when I got your invitation. As for the future—well, Vlad, if it comes up, I promise to speak to you about it before I do anything. I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out.”
I nodded thoughtfully.
“Goatshit, boss.”
“Eh? What do you mean?”
“This Laris teckla is no teckla, boss. He knew what he was doing by moving someone into your area.”
“Yeah . . . ”
At that point our pepper sausages showed up. Laris—and Loiosh—were right; it was very good. They served it with green rice covered with cheese sauce. They had a sprig of parsley on the side, like an Eastern restaurant does, but they had fried it in butter, lemon juice, and some kind of rednut liqueur—a nice effect. The pepper sausage had the meat of lamb, cow, kethna, and, I think, two different kinds of game birds. It also had black pepper, red pepper, white pepper, and Eastern red pepper (which I thought showed extraordinarily good taste). The thing was hot as Verra’s tongue and quite good. The cheese sauce over the rice was too subtle to match the sausage, but it killed the flames nicely. The wine should probably have been stronger, too.
We didn’t talk while we ate, so I had more time to consider everything. If I let him have this, what if he wanted more? Go after him then? If I didn’t let
him have the game, could I stand a war? Maybe I should tell him that I’d go for his idea, just to gain time to prepare, and then come after him when he tried to make another move. But wouldn’t that give him time to prepare, too? No, he was probably already prepared.
This last was not a comforting thought.
Laris and I pushed our plates away at the same moment. We studied each other. I saw everything that epitomized a Jhereg boss—smart, gutsy, and completely ruthless. He saw an Easterner—short, short-lived, frail, but also an assassin, and everything that implied. If he wasn’t at least a little worried about me, he was a fool.
But still . . .
I suddenly realized that, no matter what I decided, Laris had committed himself to taking over my business. My choices were to fight or concede. I had no interest in conceding. That settled part of it.
But it still didn’t tell me what to do. If I allowed that one game to operate, it might give me time to prepare. If I shut it down, I would be showing my own people that I couldn’t be played with—that I intended to hold what was mine. Which of those was more important?
“I would think,” I said slowly, “that I can stand—more wine? Allow me. That I can stand to have your friend in my area. Say ten percent? Of the total income?”
His eyes widened a bit; then he smiled. “Ten percent, eh? I hadn’t thought of that solution.” His smile broadened and he slapped the table with his free hand. “All right, Vlad. Done!”
I nodded and raised my glass in salute, then sipped from it. “Excellent. If this works out well, there isn’t any reason that we couldn’t broaden the experiment, eh?”
“Absolutely!”
“Good. I’ll expect the money at my office every Endweek in the first two hours after noon. You do know where my office is, don’t you?”
He nodded.
“Good. Naturally, I’ll trust your bookkeeping.”
“Thank you,” he said.
I raised my glass. “To a long and mutually profitable partnership.”
He raised his. The edges touched, and there was the ringing sound which denotes fine crystal. I wondered which one of us would be dead in a year. I sipped the dry, full wine, savoring it.
* * * *