by Steven Brust
Was it? Is that why I’d gotten involved in all of this nonsense? Well, no, not at first; at first I had wanted to find the murderer of this Franz fellow whom I’d never met. I’d wanted to do that to help patch things up with Cawti. Shit. Why was I trying to patch things up with her? She was the one who’d gotten involved in all this without mentioning it to me. Why did I have to go sticking my nose into a place where I wasn’t wanted and I didn’t want to be? Duty? A pretty word, that. Duty. Doo-tee. Easterners—some of them—made it sound like doo-dee; the kind of thing you hum to yourself while changing weapons. Doo-dee-da-dee-dee-do. What did it mean?
Maybe “duty” can’t just hang there in a void; maybe it has to be attached to something. A lot of Easterners attached it to Barlan, or Verra, or Crow, or one of the other gods. I couldn’t do that; I’d been around Dragaerans too long and I’d picked up their attitudes toward gods. What else was there? The Jhereg? Don’t make me laugh. My duty toward the Jhereg is to follow its rules so I don’t get shined. The Empire? My duty toward the Empire is to make sure it doesn’t notice me.
That left it pretty small. Family, I guess. Cawti, my grandfather, Loiosh, and Rocza. Sure. That was a duty, and one I could be proud to do. I thought about how empty I’d felt before Cawti came into my life, and even the memory was painful. Why wasn’t that enough?
I wondered if Cawti had felt this way. She didn’t have the organization; she just had me. She used to have a partner and they’d needed each other, but her partner had become a Dragonlord and heir to the Orb. Now what did she have? Was that why she’d gotten involved with Kelly’s people? To give her something to do, so she’d feel useful? Wasn’t I enough?
No. Of course not. No one can live his life through someone else, I knew that. So what did Cawti have to live for? She had her “people.” This group of Easterners and an occasional Teckla who got together to talk about overthrowing the Empire. Cawti hung around with them, helped build barricades in the streets, stood up to Phoenix Guards, and came home convinced that she’d done her “duty.” Maybe that’s what duty was—something you do to make yourself feel useful.
Fine. That was Cawti. Where was my duty? Doo-deedle-deedle-dee. My duty was to die, because I was going to anyway, so I might as well call it a duty. You’re getting cynical, Vlad, stop it.
I had about finished changing my weapons so I just sat there, holding a dagger that was destined for my right boot. I leaned back and closed my eyes. All of this was really beside the point if I was going to be killed soon. Or was it? Was there something I ought to be doing, even if I were dying? Now that would be a good test of “duty,” whatever I meant by it.
And I realized there was. I had gotten myself involved in this thing up to my neck mostly with the idea of keeping Cawti alive. If it was really as clear as all that that I was going to die, I’d have to make sure that Cawti was safe before I let anyone kill me.
Now there was a pretty little problem.
Doo-dee-deedee-dee-dum. I started flipping the dagger.
11
. . . & remove sweat stains.
A LITTLE LATER, WITH the seeds of an idea taking shape in my head, I called for Kragar, but Melestav said he was out. I gnashed mental teeth and kept thinking. What, I wondered, would happen if I was killed and Cawti wasn’t? My cynical half said it wouldn’t be my problem. But beyond that, I guessed that my grandfather and Cawti would be able to look out for each other. There had been some sort of communication going on between them on the street there, something that had left me out. Were they going to get together and talk about how terrible I was? Was I going to die of paranoia?
Ignoring all of that, however, Cawti would be faced with an interesting problem if Herth killed me: She’d want to kill Herth herself, but she didn’t want to be an assassin anymore. Or at least, after the way she’d spoken to me I assumed she didn’t want to be an assassin anymore. On the other hand, it couldn’t hurt Kelly any to have his biggest enemy taken off the stage. Too bad I’d have to die to pull it off. Hmmm.
I idly wondered whether there would be a way to convince Cawti I was dead long enough for her to kill Herth. My reappearance afterwards would certainly be fun. On the other hand, it could get very embarrassing if she chose not to go after him, and even more embarrassing if Herth found out I was alive.
Still, no need to dismiss it out of hand. It was better—
“You’re looking morbid again, Vlad.”
I didn’t jump. “How kind of you to say so, Kragar. Anything on Herth?” He shook his head. I continued, “All right, a couple of thoughts have been buzzing around my head. I want to let one of them keep buzzing. The other one is to set things up to do it the long way.”
“Buy off his protection?”
I nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll get started on it.”
“Good. What about the assassin?”
“The artist should be just about finished. He said I have a very good mind for detail. Since I got the image from you, I think you ought to be flattered.”
“Okay, I’m flattered. You know what to do with the picture.”
He nodded and left and I went back to planning my death—or at least thinking about it. It seemed completely impractical, but tempting anyway. The triumphant return was what sounded best, I suppose. Of course, that wouldn’t work too well if by the time I returned Cawti was shacking up with Gregory or someone.
I held that thought, just to see how much it bothered me. It more or less didn’t, which somehow bothered me.
Loiosh and Rocza scratched on the window. I put the dagger I’d been flipping in its sheath and let them in. I stayed to the side, just in case. They seemed a bit exhausted.
“Sightseeing?”
“Yeah.”
“Who won the race?”
“What makes you think we were racing, boss?”
“I didn’t say you were; I just asked who won.”
“Oh. She did. Wingspan.”
“Yeah, that’ll do it. I don’t suppose you went anywhere near South Adrilankha, did you?”
“As a matter of fact we did.”
“Ah. And the barricades?”
“Gone.”
Loiosh settled on my shoulder. I sat down and said, “A while ago you asked me what I’d think of Kelly’s group if Cawti weren’t involved.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been thinking about it. I decided it doesn’t matter. She is involved, and I have to work with things on that basis.”
“Okay.”
“And I think I know what I have to do about it.”
He didn’t say anything. I could feel him picking moods and random thoughts out of my brain. After a moment he said, “Do you really think you’re going to die?”
“Yes and no. I guess I don’t really believe it. I mean, we’ve been in situations before that have seemed this bad or worse. Mellar was tougher and smarter than Herth and the situation was worse. But I don’t see how to get out of this one. I haven’t been operating very well lately; maybe that’s part of it.”
“I know. So what is it you’re going to do?”
“Save Cawti. I don’t know about the rest, but I have to do that much.”
“Okay. How?”
“I can only think of two ways: One is to wipe out Herth, and probably his whole organization, so no one else can pick up the pieces and carry on.”
“That doesn’t seem too likely.”
“No. The other way is arrange things so that Herth has no reason to go after Cawti.”
“That sounds better. How do you plan to do it?”
“By wiping out Kelly and his little band myself.”
Loiosh didn’t say anything. From what I could pick up of his thoughts, he was too amazed to speak. I thought it a rather clever idea myself. After a while Loiosh said, “But Cawti—”
“I know. If you can think of a way for me to convince both Cawti and Herth that I’ve died, that might work too.”
“Nothing comes
to mind, boss. But—”
“Then let’s get to work.”
“I don’t like this.”
“Protest noted. Let’s get busy. I want to have it over with tonight.”
“Tonight.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, boss. Whatever you say.”
I took out a piece of paper and started making a diagram of everything I remembered in Kelly’s place, making notes where I wasn’t sure of something, and trying to make guesses about back windows and so on. Then I stared at it and tried to decide how to handle things.
This could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be called as assassination. It would be more like a slaughter. I was going to have to kill Kelly for certain, because if he survived I wouldn’t have accomplished anything. Then Paresh, because he was a sorcerer; then as many of the others as possible. There was no point in even trying to plan this out in the kind of detail I usually use; not when trying to shine five or more at once.
The thought of a fire or explosion crossed my mind, but I rejected the idea; buildings were too closely packed there. I didn’t want to burn down all of South Adrilankha.
I picked up the diagram and studied it. There was certainly going to be a back entrance to the building, and probably a back entrance to the flat. I’d been quite a ways into it and hadn’t seen a kitchen, and Kelly’s private office had two doorways, so I could probably start in back and work my way forward, to make sure no one was awake in that part of the house. Since everyone seemed to sleep in that front area, I would end there, cut Kelly’s throat, then Paresh’s. If everyone else was still sleeping by then, I would take them one at a time. I woudn’t have to worry about revivifications, since these were Easterners with no money, but if I could I’d go back and make sure anyway. Then I’d leave.
South Adrilankha would wake up tomorrow and these people would be gone. Cawti would be very upset, but she couldn’t put the organization back together just by herself. At least, I hoped she couldn’t. There were several other Easterners and Teckla involved in this, but the core would be gone and I didn’t think those who remained would be able to do anything that could threaten Herth.
I studied the diagram then destroyed it. I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes, went over the details, making sure I hadn’t left anything out.
* * *
I got to Kelly’s building halfway between midnight and dawn. The front door was only a curtain. I went around to the back. There was something of a door there, but it had no lock. I carefully and thoroughly oiled the hinges, and entered. This put me at the back of the building in a narrow hallway outside of Kelly’s flat. Rocza was nervous on my right shoulder. I asked Loiosh to keep her quiet and soon she settled down.
I looked down the hall but couldn’t see the front door—or anything else, for that matter. I have pretty fair night vision, but there are those who see better than I do. “Is there anyone in the hall, Loiosh?”
“No one, boss.”
“Okay. Where’s the back entrance to the flat?”
“Right here. If you put your hand out to the right you’ll touch it.”
“Oh.”
I slipped past the curtain and was inside. I smelled food, some of it probably edible. There was certainly the stink of rotting vegetables.
After waiting a moment to check for the sounds of breathing, I risked a small sorcerous light from the tip of my forefinger. Yes, I was in a kitchen, and a bigger one than I’d expected. There were a few cupboards, an ice-chest, a pump. I lowered the light just a bit, held my forefinger in front of me and headed toward the front room.
I passed through the room where I’d spoken with Kelly. It was pretty much as I remembered it, except for a few more boxes. On one of them I caught the glitter of steel. I looked closer and saw a long dagger, which I recognized as the murder weapon—or else one very much like it. I checked it closer. Yeah, that was it.
I was starting to go past it into the next room, the library, when I sensed someone behind me. Trying to remember this now, it seems to me that Rocza tightened her grip on my shoulder just at that moment, but Loiosh didn’t notice anything. In any case, my reaction to such things is foreordained: I spun, twisting a bit to the side, and drew a dagger from the inside my cloak.
At first I didn’t see anything, yet I continued to feel that there was someone in the room with me. I let the light from my forefinger fail and moved to the side, thinking that if I couldn’t see him, there was no reason to let him see me. Then I became aware of a faint outline, as if there were a transparent figure in front of me. I didn’t know what this meant, but I knew it wasn’t normal. I let Spellbreaker fall into my left hand.
The figure didn’t move, but it gradually grew more substantial, and it occurred to me that the room was dark as Verra’s hair and I shouldn’t be able to see anything.
“Loiosh, what do you see?”
“I’m not sure, boss.”
“But you do see something.”
“I think so.”
“Yeah. Me, too.” Rocza stirred uneasily. Well, I didn’t blame her. Then I realized what I must be seeing and I blamed her even less.
* * *
It had been made pretty clear to me that I wasn’t welcome, the time I walked the Paths of the Dead with Aliera and visited the Halls of Judgment. It was a place for the souls of Dragaerans, not the living bodies of Easterners. In order to arrive there, a body had to be sent over Deathgate Falls (which would certainly insure it was a corpse even it hadn’t been before). Then it floated down the river, fetching up somewhere along a stretch of bank, from which the soul could travel—but never mind that now. If the soul handled things right, it would reach the Halls of Judgment, and unless some god especially liked or disliked the guy, he’d take his place as part of a thriving community of dead persons.
All right, fine.
What might happen to him if he isn’t brought to Deathgate Falls? Well, if he was killed with a Morganti dagger, the issue was settled. Or, if he’d worked out some arrangement with his favorite god, then the god had the pleasure of doing anything he wanted with the soul. Other than that, he’d be reincarnated. You don’t have to believe me, of course, but some recent experiences have convinced me that this is fact.
Now, most of what I know about reincarnation I learned from Aliera before I believed in it, so I’ve forgotten a great deal of what she said. But I remember that an unborn child exerts a kind of mystical pull and will draw in the soul most suited to it. If no soul is appropriate, there will be no birth. If there is no child appropriate to a soul, the soul waits in a place that the necromancers call “The Plane of Waiting Souls” because they aren’t very imaginative. Why does it wait there? Because it can’t help it. There is something about the place that pulls at the Dragaeran soul.
But what about Easterners? Well, it’s pretty much the same, as far as I can tell. When it comes down to a soul, there just isn’t that much difference between a Dragaeran and an Easterner. We aren’t allowed into the Paths of the Dead, but Morganti weapons have the same effect on us, and we can make deals with any god who feels like it, and we’re probably reincarnated if there’s nothing else going on, or at least that’s what the Eastern poet-seer, Yain Cho Lin, is reported to have said. In fact, according to the Book of the Seven Wizards, the Plane of Waiting Souls pulls at us while we’re waiting, just like it does Dragaerans.
The book says, however, that it doesn’t pull quite as hard. Why? Population. There are more Easterners in the world, so there are fewer souls waiting for places to go, so there are fewer souls to help call the others. Does this make sense? Not to me, either, but there it is.
One result of this weaker pull is that, sometimes, the soul of an Easterner will be neither reincarnated nor will it go to the Plane of Waiting Souls. Instead it will, well, just sort of hang around.
At least, that’s the story. Believe it or not, as you choose.
I believe it, myself.
I was seeing a ghost.
> * * *
I stared at it. Staring seems to be the first thing one does when seeing a ghost. I wasn’t quite sure what the second thing ought to be. According to the stories my grandfather had told me when I was young, screaming was highly thought of. But if I screamed I’d wake up everyone in the place, and I needed them to be sleeping if I was going to kill them. Also, I didn’t feel the urge. I knew I was supposed to be frightened, but when it came down to it, I was much more fascinated than scared.
The ghost continued to solidify. It was a bit luminescent, which was how I could see it. It was emitting a very faint blue glow. As I watched, I began to see the lines of its face. Soon I could tell that it was an Easterner, then that it was male. It seemed to be looking at me—that is, actually seeing me. Since I didn’t want to wake everyone up, I moved out of the room, back into Kelly’s study. I made a light again and navigated the floor to his desk and sat down. I don’t know how I knew the ghost would follow me, but I did and he did.
I cleared my throat. “Well,” I said. “You must be Franz.”
“Yes,” said the ghost. Can I say his voice was sepulchral? I don’t care. It was.
“I’m Vladimir Taltos—Cawti’s husband.”
The ghost—no, let me just call him Franz. Franz nodded. “What are you doing here?” As he spoke he continued to solidify, and his voice became more normal.
“Well,” I said. “That’s a bit hard to explain. What are you doing here?”
His brow (which I could now see) came together. “I’m not sure,” he said. I studied him. His hair was light, straight, and neatly combed. How does a ghost comb his hair? His face was pleasant but undistinctive, his demeanor had that honest and sincere look that I associate with spice salesmen and dead lyorn. He had a peculiar way of standing, as if he were leaning ever so slightly forward, and when I spoke he turned his head just a bit to the side. I wondered if he was hard of hearing, or just very intent on catching everything that was said. He seemed to be a very intense listener. In fact, he seemed intense just in general. He said, “I was standing outside the meeting hall—”