by Steven Brust
* * * *
About twenty-two hours after Kragar left to set things up, I was leaning back in my chair, which has a strange mechanism that allows it to tilt, swivel, and do other things. My feet were up on the desk, crossed at the ankles. The toes of my boots pointed to opposite corners of the room, and in the gap between them Kragar’s thin face was framed. His chin is one that a human would call weak, but Kragar isn’t—that’s just another one of his innate illusions. He is built of illusions. Some natural, others, I think, cultivated. For example, when anyone else would be angry, he never seems to be; he usually just appears disgusted.
The face that was framed in the V of my boots looked disgusted. He said, “You’re right. You don’t have to take anyone with you. What interest could a Dragonlord possibly have in hurting a poor, innocent Jhereg, just because he’s an Easterner? Or should I say, a poor, innocent Easterner, just because he’s a Jhereg? Come on, Vlad, wake up. You have to have protection. And I’m your best bet for avoiding trouble.”
Loiosh, who had been swooping down on stray lint, landed on my right shoulder and said, “Just point out that I’ll be there, boss. That should keep him from worrying.”
“You think so? What if it doesn’t?”
“I’ll bite his nose off. “
I said aloud, “Kragar, I could bring every enforcer who works for me, and it wouldn’t make any difference at all if Morrolan decides to shine me. And this is a social call. If I show up with protection—”
“That’s why I think I should come. He’ll never notice I’m there.”
“No,” I said. “He’s permitted me to visit. He said nothing about bringing a shadow. If he did notice you—”
“He’d understand that it’s policy in the Jhereg. He must know something about how we operate.”
“I repeat: no.”
“But—”
“Subject closed, Kragar.”
He closed his eyes and emitted a sigh that hung in the air like an athyra’s mating call. He opened his eyes again. “Okay. You want Narvane to do the teleport, right?”
“Yeah. Can he handle the coordinates?”
“Morrolan said one of his people would put them straight into the mind of whoever we want to do the spell.”
I blinked. “How can he do that? How can one of his people achieve that close a psionic link with someone he doesn’t know?”
Kragar yawned. “Magic,” he said.
“What kind of magic, Kragar?”
He shrugged. “How should I know?”
“Sounds like witchcraft, boss.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking, Loiosh.”
“You think he might be employing a witch?”
“Remember, he spent a lot of time out East, during the Interregnum? “
“Yeah. That’s right.”
I flexed my fingers. “In any case,” I said, “I do want Narvane to do the teleport. I’ll want him here tomorrow an hour ahead of time.”
Kragar nodded and looked bored, which meant he was unhappy. Loiosh was going to be unhappy, too, pretty soon.
Them’s the breaks.
Chapter 2
I began laying out what I would need for the spell. I concentrated only on my goal and tried not to think about how silly it was to arrange tools, objects, and artifacts before I had any idea how I intended to use any of them. I let my hands pull from the pack various and sundry items and arrange them as they would.
I couldn’t know what I’d need, because the spell I was about to attempt had never been performed before; didn’t even exist—except that I had to do it now.
I arrived at the office too early the next day. I’m good at waiting patiently when I have to, but I don’t like it. It would be hours before I was due at Castle Black, and there was nothing at the office that required my attention. I puttered around for a while, pretending to be busy, then said, “Screw it,” and walked out.
The orange-red sky was low today, mixed with grey, threatening rain, and the wind was in from the sea. I walked, or actually strolled, through my area. These few blocks of Adrilankha were mine, and a certain satisfaction came with that knowledge. I stopped in to see a guy named Nielar, my first boss and then one of my first employees.
I said, “What’s new?”
He gave me kind of a warm smile and said, “Business as usual, Vlad.”
I never know how to take Nielar. I mean, he could have had the position I hold if he’d been willing to fight a bit, but he decided he’d rather stay small and healthy. I can respect that, I guess, but, well, I’d respect him more if he’d decided to take the chance. What the hell. Who can figure out Dragaerans, anyway?
I said, “What have you heard?”
“About what?”
“Don’t give me that.”
If he’d played dumb a little longer I’d have bought it, but he said, “Just that you got burned by one of your button-men. Who was it?”
“It doesn’t matter, Nielar. And it’ll matter even less in a little while.”
“Right.”
“See you.”
I walked out of Nielar’s shop and headed toward South Adrilankha, the Easterner’s ghetto.
Loiosh, sitting on my left shoulder, said, “Word is getting around, boss.”
“I know. I’m going to have to do something about it. If everyone thinks I can be taken, I will be.”
I kept walking, thinking things over. With any luck at all, Morrolan would be able to steer me toward Quion. Would he be willing to? I didn’t know.
“Going to visit your grandfather, boss?”
“No, I don’t think so. Not today.”
“Then where? No, don’t tell me. A brothel or an inn.”
“Good guess. An inn.”
“Who’s going to carry you home?”
“I’m only going to have one or two.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Shut up, Loiosh.”
“Boss, you are going to Castle Black, aren’t you?”
“If I can work up the nerve. Now let me think.”
It started drizzling about then. I drew on my link to the Imperial Orb and created an invisible shield, setting it up over my head. It was an easy spell. Most passersby I saw had done the same. The few exceptions, mostly of the House of the Teckla, headed for doorways to wait it out or else got wet. The streets became very muddy, and I made a mental note to allow time to clean my boots. There must be sorcery that can do that. I’ll have to learn it one of these days.
By the time I had crossed Twovine and entered South Adrilankha the rain had stopped, which was just as well. Very few Easterners are sorcerers, and I didn’t want to call that kind of attention to myself. Of course, I was wearing the grey and black of House Jhereg, and Loiosh riding on my shoulder was enough to proclaim, “Here is a witch!” but there was no need to make matters worse.
About then, Loiosh caught something of my thoughts and said, “Wait a minute, boss. Just who do you think you’re leaving behind?”
“You, chum. Sorry.”
“Crap. You can’t—”
“Yes I can. One does not bring a jhereg to visit a Dragonlord. At least not on a first visit.”
“But—”
“You’re not expendable, you’re not stupid, and you’re not going.”
This gave us something to argue about until I reached the place I was looking for, which helped distract me. The thing is, I was really terrified. I very badly wanted not to go, but I couldn’t think of any way out of it. I tried to picture myself showing up there and I couldn’t. Yet, if I didn’t follow up on Quion, my reputation would suffer, and, in the Jhereg, reputation means money and safety.
I found Ferenk’s, which was right where I’d been told it would be, and I stepped inside, pausing to let my eyes adjust to the relative darkness. I’d never been there before, but my grandfather had recommended it as the place to find good Fenarian brandy.
One thing that shed a great deal of light on how Dragaerans think was w
hen I realized that they had no term for brandy, even though they had the drink. They called it wine, and, I guess, just had to know the bottler to decide how strong it was and what it tasted like. To me, brandy and wine aren’t even close in taste, and maybe they aren’t to Dragaerans, either. The thing is, Dragaerans don’t care if they taste different, or that the process of making one has almost nothing to do with the process of making the other; the point is, they are alcoholic drinks made from fruit, so they must be the same thing. Interesting, no?
Easterners don’t have that problem. Ferenk’s especially didn’t have that problem. One entire wall behind the long, dark, hardwood bar was filled with different Fenarian brandies, about half of them peach. I was very impressed. I hadn’t known there were that many in existence. I was very glad that the Empire wasn’t currently at war with Fenario.
The place was pretty much empty. I licked my lips and sat down at a tall, high-backed chair right at the bar. The host glanced at Loiosh, then wiped the counter in front of me and looked an inquiry.
I glanced at the peach brandies and said, “A glass of Oregigeret.”
He nodded. “Dead bodies and seaweed, eh?”
I said, “Is that what you call it?”
He shrugged. “Well, it isn’t what I’d call gentle.”
I said, “What do you recommend?”
He glanced at the wall and picked out a short, round bottle and showed it to me. The label was faded, but I could see the lettering, which read “Barackaranybol.”
I said, “Okay. I’ll try a glass of that.”
He pulled out a glass, reached under his counter, and put some ice into it. My first reaction was to be impressed that he could afford to buy the ice, not to mention the spells to keep it cold. Such things aren’t cheap around here. But then I realized what he was doing and I said, “No, no. I don’t want ice in it.”
He looked disgusted. He pulled out a pitcher, filled the glass with water, and pushed it in front of me. Then he poured some brandy into another glass and set that next to the water. He said, “I’m just giving you some water to clear your mouth out before you drink the brandy. You know how to drink ‘em; I know how to pour ‘em, okay?”
I said, “Right,” to the host, and started to sip the brandy.
I heard Loiosh giggling. “Shut up,” I told him. I put the brandy down, took a sip of water, then drank some of the brandy. The brandy was very good.
“I’ll have the same,” came from right behind me. The voice was low in pitch, velvety, and very familiar. I turned and felt a smile growing on my face.
“Kiera!”
“Hello, Vlad.”
Kiera the Thief sat down next to me.
I said, “What are you doing around here?”
“Tasting Fenarian brandies.”
The host was staring at her, half hostile and half fearful. I was a Jhereg but at least I was human. Kiera was a Dragaeran. I took a look around and saw that the three other customers in the place were staring at Kiera with expressions that held different mixtures of fear and hatred. I turned back to the host and said, “The lady asked for a drink.”
He glanced at the table where the other three humans sat, at Kiera, then back at me. I held his gaze, waiting. He licked his lips, hesitated, then said, “Right,” and poured her the same thing he’d given me. Then he wandered over to the other end of the bar. I shrugged, and Kiera and I moved to a table.
“So,” I said. “Come here often?”
She smiled. “I’ve heard that you’re having some troubles.”
I shook my head. “Someday I’ll find out how you learn these things.”
“Maybe you will. Do you need help, Vlad?”
“Just courage, I think.”
“Oh?”
“You probably know one of my button-men has been stealing the eggs.”
“Yeah. And mama hen isn’t happy.”
“Papa rooster if you don’t mind.”
“Right. What are you doing about it?”
“Going somewhere I don’t want to go, for starters.”
“Where?”
“Have you ever heard of Castle Black?”
Her eyes widened appreciatively. “A Dragonlord named Morrolan, I believe,” she said.
“Right.”
She cocked her head to the side. “I’ll tell you what, Vlad. You go ahead and follow him there. If Morrolan kills you, he won’t live out the month.”
I felt a lump rise in my throat. After a moment I said, “Going into another line of work, Kiera?”
She smiled. “We all have friends.”
“Well, thanks,” I said. “That’s yet another one I owe you.”
She nodded, still smiling. Then she got up, said, “Good wine,” and walked out of the place.
And it’s funny. Revenge is rather silly. I mean, I’d be dead, why should I care? Yet, somehow, her saying that was just what I needed to reassure me. I still can’t figure out why.
I had another drink after she left and, just to prove Loiosh wrong, stopped at two. I called on my link to the Orb once more, and found I still had a couple of hours before I had to be back at the office. I paid the host, told him I’d be back sometime, and headed for home.
* * * *
My grandfather has a white cat named Ambrus, who is the most intelligent cat I’ve ever met, as well as the oldest. I never actually played with him, the way people usually play with cats, but sometimes, when a child, I would sit and talk to him while my father and grandfather were in the other room, talking. I used to pretend that he could understand me, and either he really could, or my memory is playing tricks on me, because a normal cat couldn’t have responded the way Ambrus did: meowing exactly in answer to questions, purring when I told him I liked him, and extending his claws and swiping at the air behind him when I’d point that way and say, “Look out, a dragon.”
Knowing what I know now, I don’t think my memory is playing tricks on me.
In any case, one day when I was, I don’t know, maybe seven, my father saw me talking to him and scowled.
I said, “You don’t like cats, papa?”
He said, “It isn’t that. Never mind.”
I think I remember seeing Noish-pa standing behind him, watching the scene, and maybe smiling just a little.
* * * *
Humans do witchcraft, Dragaerans do sorcery. I do both, which is unusual, so I’m in a good position to compare them. The one difference that keeps hitting me is that witchcraft is more fun. If a witch could teleport (a thing that seems impossible, but I could be wrong), it would involve hours of preparation, rituals, chanting, and filling all the senses with the desired result until the spell would work in a blinding explosion of emotional fulfillment.
Narvane, one of my enforcers and an excellent sorcerer, just said, “Ready?”
I said, “Yeah.”
He casually raised his hand, the office vanished around me, and I felt a lurch in my gut.
* * * *
There was a day when I did something, I don’t remember what, and my father slapped me for it. I probably deserved it. It wasn’t the first time he’d slapped me, but this occasion I recall specifically. I think I must have been about seven or eight.
What I remember is that I looked up at him curiously and shook my head. His eyes grew wide, and maybe a little fearful, and he stood there staring at me for a moment before turning and walking into the other room. I guess he wanted to ask about the look on my face, but he didn’t, and I didn’t say anything. You must understand, I was very young, so I’m reconstructing a lot of this from memory, but I retain the impression that my reaction frightened or puzzled him a little. But what was going through my mind was something like, “You call that hitting someone? That hardly hurt. I get beat worse than that every time you send me to the market for bay leaves.”
* * * *
I didn’t notice where I was at first, because I was too busy feeling sick to my stomach. Dragaerans don’t have this reaction to tele
ports but I do, and every other human I know does, too.
I kept my eyes closed and resolved not to throw up. Maybe the brandy had been a mistake. I risked a quick look and saw that I was in an open courtyard; then I realized that I was standing on air and closed my eyes again. Whatever was holding me up felt solid. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes again.
The great double doors of the castle were about fifty yards in front of me. High, high walls were all around. Why did Morrolan have walls around a castle that floated? I risked a look down and saw orange-red clouds. Above me was more of the same. There was a cool breeze on my face bringing a faint smoky smell. I saw no one else in the courtyard.
I glanced around the walls and saw towers placed at the corners. Towers, walls, and the castle itself were of the same black stone—obsidian, I think—much of it carved into figures battling or hunting or just lounging on the walls. Pretentious bastard.
I saw a pair of guards in one tower. They both wore the black and silver of the House of the Dragon. One carried a spear, the other a staff. Wizards, employed as guards.
Well, he’d certainly convinced me that he was rich, if nothing else. The guard with the spear saw me looking at him and saluted. I nodded back, wishing Loiosh were with me, and started walking toward the great double doors of Castle Black.
* * * *
If I look back on my life as if it were that of a stranger, I’d have to say that I grew up around violence. That sounds peculiar to me, because I’ve never really thought of it that way, but as far back as I can remember I had a fear of Dragaerans. Home was above father’s restaurant, which was in an area where Easterners—humans—didn’t live. I spent most of my time in the restaurant even before I started helping around the place. And I can still remember the thrill of fear every time I left it, and long chases through alleys, and beatings at the hands of Dragaerans who didn’t like humans, or other humans who thought we were getting above ourselves. This latter—being beaten up by other Easterners—didn’t happen often. The first time I think I was about eight. My father presented me with an outfit in the colors of House Jhereg. I remember that day because it was one of the few times I can recall seeing my father happy. I picked up his mood and went strutting around in my new clothes and was found by a few human kids about my own age who, well, you can guess. I’ll spare you the details.