by Steven Brust
I chuckled a little. “Any idea why?”
This time I’d gone too far. I could see him clam up.
“None at all,” he said.
Okay, so I’d gotten a little, and he’d gotten a little. Which one of us had gotten more would be determined by which one of us was alive after this was over.
* * *
“Well, Loiosh, did you find out anything?”
“More than you did, boss.”
“Oh? What in specific?”
Mental images of two faces appeared to my mind’s eye.
“These two. They were watching you the entire time from a few feet away.”
“Oh, really? So he has bodyguards, eh?”
“At least two of them. Are you surprised?”
“Not really. I’m just surprised that I didn’t pick up on them.”
“I guess they’re pretty good.”
“Yeah. Thanks, by the way.”
“No problem. It’s a good thing that one of us stays awake.”
I made my way out of the banquet hall and considered my next move. Let’s see. I really should check in with Morrolan. First, however, I wanted to talk to one of the security people and arrange for some surveillance on those two bodyguards. I wanted to learn a bit about them before I found myself confronting them on any important issue.
Morrolan’s security officer on duty had an office just a few doors down from the Library. I walked in without knocking—the nature of my job putting me a step above this fellow.
The person who looked up at me as I stepped in was called Uliron, and he should have been working the next shift, not this one. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Where is Fentor?”
He shrugged. “He wanted me to take his shift this time, and he’d take mine. I guess he had some kind of business.”
I was bothered by this. “Do you do this often?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, looking puzzled, “both you and Morrolan said it was all right for us to switch from time to time, and we logged it last shift.”
“But do you do it often?”
“No, not really very often. Does it matter?”
“I don’t know. Shut up for a minute; I want to think.”
Fentor was a Tsalmoth, and he’d been with Morrolan’s security forces for over fifty years. It was hard to imagine him suddenly being on the take, but it is possible to bring pressures down on anyone. Why? What did they want?
The other thing I couldn’t figure out was why I had such a strong reaction to the switch. Sure, it was coming at a bad time, but they’d done it before. I almost dismissed it, but I’ve learned something about my own hunches: the only time they turn out to be meaningful is when I ignore them.
I sat on the edge of the desk and tried to sort it out. There was something significant about this; there had to be. I drew a dagger and started flipping it.
“What do you make of this, Loiosh?”
“I don’t make anything of it, boss. Why do you think there’s something wrong?”
“I don’t know. Just that there’s a break in routine, right now, when we know that the Demon wants to get at Mellar, and he isn’t going to let the fact that Mellar is in Castle Black stop him.”
“You think this could be a shot at Mellar?”
“Or the setup for it. I don’t know. I’m worried.”
“But didn’t the Demon say that there wouldn’t be any need to start a war? He said it could be ‘worked around.’”
“Yes, he did. I hadn’t forgotten that. I just don’t see how he can do it—”
I stopped. At that moment, I saw very clearly how he could do it. That, of course, was why the Demon had tried to get my cooperation and then tried to kill me when I wouldn’t give it. Oh, shit.
I didn’t want to take the time to run down the hall. I reached out for contact with Morrolan. There was a good chance that I was already too late, of course, but perhaps not. If I could reach him, I would have to try to convince him not to leave Castle Black, under any circumstances. I’d have to . . . I became aware that I wasn’t reaching him.
I felt myself slipping into automatic—where my brain takes off on its own, and lets me know what I’m supposed to do next. I concentrated on Aliera, and got contact.
“Yes, Vlad? What is it?”
“Morrolan. I can’t reach him, and it’s urgent. Can you find him with Pathfinder?”
“What’s wrong, Vlad?”
“If we hurry, we might be able to get him before they make him unrevivifiable.”
The echo of the thoughts hadn’t died out in my head before she was standing next to me, Pathfinder naked in her hand. I heard a gasp from behind me, and remembered Uliron.
“Hold the keep for us,” I told him. “And pray.”
I sheathed my dagger; I wanted to have both hands free. If I don’t know what I’m going to run into, I consider hands to be more versatile than any given weapon. I longed to unwrap Spellbreaker and be holding it ready, but I didn’t. I was better off this way.
Aliera was deep in concentration, and I saw Pathfinder begin to emit a soft green glow. This was something I despised—having to sit there, ready to do something, but waiting for someone else to finish before I could. I studied Pathfinder. It shimmered green along its hard, black length. Pathfinder was a short weapon, compared to most swords that Dragaerans use. It was both shorter and heavier than the rapiers I liked to use, but in Aliera’s hands it was light and capable. And, of course, it was a Great Weapon.
What is a Great Weapon? That’s a good question. I wondered the same thing myself as I watched Aliera concentrating, her eyes narrowed to slits, and her hand steadily holding the pulsating blade.
As far as my knowledge goes, however, there is this: a Morganti weapon, made by one of the small, strange race called Serioli that dwell in the jungles and mountains of Dragaera, is capable of destroying the soul of the person it kills. They are, all of them, strange and frightening things, endowed with a kind of sentience. They come in differing degrees of power, and some are enchanted in other ways.
But there are a few—legend says seventeen—that go beyond “a kind of sentience.” These are the Great Weapons. They are, all of them, powerful. They all have enough sentience to actually decide whether or not to destroy the soul of the victim. Each has its own abilities, skills, and powers. And each one, it is said, is linked to the soul of the one who bears it. It can, and will, do anything necessary to preserve its bearer, if he is the One chosen for it. And the things those weapons can do . . .
Aliera tugged at my sleeve and nodded when I looked up. There was a twist down in my bowels, the walls vanished, and I felt sick, as usual. We were standing in what appeared to be an unused warehouse. Aliera gave a gasp, and I followed her glance.
Morrolan’s body was lying on the floor a few feet from us. There was a dark red spot on his chest. I approached him, feeling sicker than ever. I dropped to my knee next to him and saw that he wasn’t breathing.
Aliera sheathed Pathfinder and dropped down beside me. She ran her hands over Morrolan’s body once, her face closed with concentration. Then she sat back and shook her head.
“Unrevivifiable?” I asked.
She nodded. Her eyes were cold and gray. Mourning, if there was to be any, would come later.
12
“Tread lightly near thine own traps.”
“IS THERE ANYTHING WE can do, Aliera?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Bide.” She carefully ran her hands once more over Morrolan’s body, while I made a cursory survey of the warehouse. I didn’t find anything, but there were several areas that I couldn’t see.
“I can’t break it,” she said at last.
“Break what?”
“The spell preventing revivification.”
“Oh.”
“However, the sorcerer who put it on could, if it’s done soon enough. We’ll have to find him quickly.”
“Her,” I corrected automatically.
&nbs
p; She was up in an instant, staring at me. “You know who did it?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “But I think we’re safe in limiting it to the Left Hand of the Jhereg, and most of them are female.”
She looked puzzled. “Why would the Jhereg want to kill Morrolan?”
I shook my head. “I’ll explain later. Right now, we have to find that sorceress.”
“Any suggestions as to how we do this?”
“Pathfinder?”
“Has nothing to work with. I need a psionic image, or at least a face or a name. I’ve checked around the room, but I’m not able to pick up anything.”
“You generally don’t with Jhereg. If she’s competent, she wouldn’t have had to feel any strong emotions in order to do what she did.”
She nodded. I began looking around the room, hoping to find some kind of clue. Loiosh was faster, however. He flew around the perimeter and quickly spotted something.
“Over here, boss!”
Aliera and I rushed over there, and almost tripped over another body, lying face down on the floor. I turned it over and saw Fentor’s face staring up at me. His throat had been cut by a wide-bladed knife, used skillfully and with precision. The jugular had been neatly slit.
I turned to Aliera, to ask if he was revivifiable, but she was already checking. I stepped back to give her room.
She nodded, once, then laid her left hand on his throat. She held it there for a moment and removed it. The wound was closed, and from where I stood I could only barely make out a faint scar.
She continued checking over his body and turned it over to make sure that there was nothing on his back. She turned it over again and laid both of her hands on his chest. She closed her eyes, and I could see the lines of tension on her face.
Fentor started breathing.
I let the air out of my lungs, realizing that I’d been holding it in.
His eyes fluttered open. Fear, recognition, relief, puzzlement, understanding.
I wondered what my own face had looked like, that time Aliera had brought me back to life.
He reached up with his right hand and touched his throat; he shivered. He saw me, but had no reaction that indicated guilt. Good; he hadn’t been bought off, at least. I’d have liked to have given him time to recover, but we couldn’t afford it. Every second we waited made it that much less likely that we could find the sorceress who had finished off Morrolan. And we had to find her and make her—
I reached out for contact with Kragar. After a long time, or so it seemed, I reached him.
“What is it, boss?”
“Can you get a fix on me?”
“It’ll take a while. Problems?”
“You guessed it. I need a Morganti blade. Don’t bother making it untraceable this time, just make it strong.”
“Check. Sword, or dagger?”
“Dagger, if possible, but a sword will do.”
“Okay. And you want it sent to where you are?”
“Right. And hurry.”
“All right. Leave our link open, so I can trace down it.”
“Right.”
I turned back to Fentor. “What happened? Briefly.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, collecting his thoughts.
“I was sitting at the security office, when—”
“No,” I interrupted. “We don’t have time for the whole thing right now. Just what happened after you got here.”
He nodded. “Okay. I showed up, was slugged. When I woke up I was blindfolded. I heard some talking, but I couldn’t make out anything anyone said. I tried to reach you, and then Morrolan, but they had some kind of block up. I sat there for about fifteen minutes and tried to get out. Someone touched me on the throat with a knife to let me know I was being watched, so I stopped. I felt someone teleport in, around then, and then someone cut my throat.” He winced and turned away. When he turned back, his face was composed again. “That’s all I know.”
“So we still don’t have anything,” I said.
“Not necessarily,” said Aliera. She turned to Fentor. “You say you heard voices?”
He nodded.
“Were any of them female?”
He squinted for a moment, trying to remember, then nodded.
“Yes. There was definitely a woman there.”
She reached forward again and placed her hand on his forehead.
“Now,” she instructed, “think about that voice. Concentrate on it. Try to hear it in your mind.”
He realized what was going on and looked over at me, his eyes wide. No one, no matter how innocent, enjoys being mind-probed.
“Do it,” I said. “Cooperate.”
He dropped his head back and closed his eyes.
After about a minute, Aliera opened her eyes and looked up. “I think I’ve got it,” she said. She drew Pathfinder, and Fentor gasped and tried to draw away.
At about that moment, there was a small popping sound, and I heard Kragar’s pseudo-voice say, “Okay, here it is.”
I saw a sheathed dagger at my feet.
“Good work,” I told him, and cut the link before he could get around to asking any questions.
I drew the dagger and studied it. The instant it was out of the sheath, I recognized it as Morganti. I felt the blade’s sentience ringing within my mind, and I shuddered.
It was a large knife, with a point and an edge. Two edges, in fact, as it was sharpened a few inches along the back. The blade was about sixteen inches long, and had a wicked curve along the back where it was sharpened. A knife-fighter’s weapon. The hilt was large, and quite plain. The handle was a trifle uncomfortable in my hand; it had been made for Dragaerans, of course.
I sheathed it, and hung it on my belt, on the left side. It was next to the sword, in front of it, and set up for a cross-body draw. I tested it a few times, to make sure that its placement didn’t interfere with getting to my sword. I looked over at Aliera and nodded that I was ready. “Fentor,” I said, “when you’re feeling strong enough, contact Uliron; he’ll arrange to get you back. Consider yourself temporarily suspended from duties.”
He managed a nod, as I felt the gut-wrenching twist of a teleport take effect.
* * *
Some general pointers on assassination and similar activities: Do not have yourself teleported so that when you arrive at the scene, you are feeling sick to your stomach. Particularly avoid it when you have no idea whatsoever as to where you’re going to end up. Failing these, at least make sure that it isn’t a crowded tavern at the height of the rush hour, when you don’t know exactly where your victim is. If you do, the people around you will have time to react to you before you can begin to move. And, of course, don’t do it in a place where your victim is sitting at a table surrounded by sorceresses.
If, for some reason, you have to violate all of the above rules, try to have next to you an enraged Dragonlord with a Great Weapon. Fortunately, I wasn’t here to do an assassination. Well, not exactly.
Aliera faced one direction; I faced the other. I spotted them first, but not before I heard a shout and saw several people go into various types of frenzied actions. If this was a typical Jhereg-owned establishment, there could be up to a half-dozen people here who regularly brought bodyguards with them. At least some of the bodyguards would recognize me, and hence be aware that an assassin was now among them.
“Duck, boss!”
I dropped to one knee, as I spotted the table, and so avoided a knife that came whistling at my head. I saw someone, female, point her finger at me. Spellbreaker fell into my hand, and I swung it out. It must have intercepted whatever it was that she was trying to do to me; I wasn’t blasted, or paralyzed, or . . . whatever.
A problem occurred to me just then: I had recognized the table because there were a lot of people at it that I knew to be with the Left Hand, and because they had reacted to my suddenly showing up. One of them, therefore, must have understood what I was doing there (which was confirmed by Aliera’s presence),
and acted accordingly. I could safely kill all but her. But which one was it? I couldn’t tell by looking at them. By this time, they were all standing up and ready to destroy us. I was paralyzed as surely as if a spell had hit me.
Aliera wasn’t, however. She must have asked Pathfinder which one it was as soon as she had seen the table—just a fraction of a second after I did. As it happened, she didn’t feel like stopping long enough to let me in on the secret. She jumped past me, Pathfinder arcing wildly. I saw what must have been another spell aimed at me, and I swung Spellbreaker again—caught it.
Aliera had her left hand in front of her. I could see multicolored light striking it. Pathfinder connected with the head of a sorceress with light brown, curly hair, who would have been quite pretty if it weren’t for the look on her face and the dent in her forehead.
I shouted over the screams as I rolled along the floor, hoping to present a difficult target. “Dammit, Aliera, which one?”
She cut again, and another fell, her head departing her shoulders and coming to rest next to me. But Aliera had heard me. Her left hand stopped blocking spells and she pointed directly at one of the sorceresses for a moment. It was someone I didn’t know. Something seemed to strike Aliera at that moment, but Pathfinder emitted a bright green flash for an instant and she continued with the mayhem.
My left hand found three shuriken, and I flipped them at one of the sorceresses who was trying to do something or other to Aliera.
You know, that’s what I hate most about fighting against magic: you never know what they’re trying to do to you until it hits. The sorceress knew what hit her, however. Two of the shuriken got past whatever defenses she had. One caught her just below the throat, the other in the middle of her chest. It wouldn’t kill her, but she wouldn’t be fighting anyone for a while.
I noticed Loiosh, about then, flying into people’s faces and forcing them to fend him off, or else heal the poison. I began to work my way toward our target. Grab her, then have Aliera teleport us out and put up trace blocks.
The sorceress beat us to it.
I was on my feet and moving toward her. I was perhaps five steps away when she vanished. At the same moment something hit me. I discovered that I couldn’t move. I’d been running and I wasn’t especially in balance, so I hit the floor rather hard. I ended up on my back, in a position where I could see Aliera, torn between helping me and trying to trace and follow the vanished sorceress.