Vallista--A Novel of Vlad Taltos

by Steven Brust

  He chuckled. “Once I tried thinking about a sword, and had a memory of my life as a Dragonlord.”

  “How was it?”

  “The me of now didn’t care for it, but the me of then seemed content enough. I also wondered if I’d once been a Hawk, so I concentrated on the symbol of the House, and recovered some memories. I tried Phoenix, but, alas, it seems I was never of that House.”

  “Okay, I get it.”

  “Should we go back, or do you want to see what happens?”

  “Are we in a hurry?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Let me try something, then.”

  “Take as much time as you want,” he said.

  Rocza shifted on my shoulder. Loiosh shifted on the other, then they both settled in. I stared at the fountain some more, letting my mind wander, just watching the jets. If it were an oracle, I’d ask it what was going on with that bloody house, or rather, “platform”; but there was no way to form my need for a clue into anything useful. Could I isolate some of what I didn’t understand? Well, one piece was, just why was the connection between Precipice Manor and the Halls of Judgment so important? The trouble was, even if I learned the answer, I probably didn’t know enough necromancy to make sense of it.

  Magic is confusing.

  I glared at the fountain and dared it to contradict me.

  6

  IN THE PAST DARKLY

  On a day when the Enclouding was so thin I could not bear to look in the direction of the Furnace, I leaned against an outer wall of the shack that was my home, flexed my hands, picked up my creation, and studied it.

  My creation? Where? What?

  I always looked for patterns in my completed work, and sometimes found them. I knew they weren’t really there, that they were something my imagination imposed on them, overlaid like a blanket of fog lying over the evergreen forest beneath me. But I always looked anyway, I suppose the way an artist will examine a completed work: is this what I meant to capture? Is there more here than I intended? Did I do good work? I watched myself handling the completed carving, and it made no sense, and it was exactly what it should be, and I reflected on art and didn’t know why I would have those thoughts.

  It was different, of course: an artist, I believe, is aware during the process of creation, whereas I never was. I would sit down with my set of chisels and my three hammers and my stone, and breathe in the harsh, acrid smell of the Enclouding, taking it as deeply as I could, and as I exhaled, I would see people, animals, trails, ridges, streams, hills, valleys; and as I watched and studied, my hands would carve. Or so they must, because afterward they would ache, and the callus at the base of my left thumb would perhaps have grown a little harder, and there would be chips in my eyes, and dust in my throat, and in my hands would be a carving that hadn’t existed before.

  It didn’t happen often: maybe every twenty or thirty years would I feel that I could reach out and see. I’d tried on other occasions and got nothing, no visions, and the marks on the stone were meaningless.

  And a year or two from now, when I began to long for the city again, I would come down from the mountain—my mountain—and begin the long journey to Dragaera, where I would bring my creation to House Athyra itself, nestled in the arms of the Palace like a veritable bird in a nest, and they would praise me and praise my work and study the lines and circles and triangles looking for meaning: Why was one line deeper than another? Why was one circle inside of another? Eventually, there would be an auction of the mind, and someone, someone old and near death most likely, would pay for it and I’d stay in the House for a year or maybe two, until my mountain called me back. Then I would buy supplies and hire porters and begin the long journey.

  I did not try to understand the meaning; I enjoyed looking at the patterns in the abstract collection of sculptured doodles, and let my imagination take me where it would.

  It is joyful and sad to finish a piece of work. On that day, the joy predominated, I suppose because the day was so fine, the air just a little chilly, the way I liked it, and as I studied the tablet I’d made, though I could discern no patterns, still it felt like a good day’s work.

  Someday someone would have it, and spend hours, days, maybe years staring at my work, absorbing, finding meaning that I’d placed there, meaning I had not, and some that perhaps I had without knowing it. Though money would change hands, still it felt like a gift, a personal gift, from me to whomever that stranger was. My work would come to mean something to that person, there would be a bond between us, beyond the ties of House and perhaps kinship. As long as either of us lived, and quite possibly beyond, there would be something tying me to another in a way that a mother, a son, a lover, a student, even an artist could never know, and I valued that nearly as much as the work itself.

  For that moment, I was content.

  And utterly mystified.

  * * *

  I came back to the present, to the fountain.

  What?

  I looked at my hands, and they were no darker than I remembered them, and my only callus was the one at the base of my forefinger, from holding a kitchen knife. I took a breath, and there was no smell of the Enclouding, and no dust in my throat.

  I turned to Discaru. “I think I got someone else’s memory.”

  “No,” he said. “That isn’t how it works.”

  “Uh. Maybe just pure illusion?”

  He shook his head.

  “So that, what I saw, that was real? That was me?”

  “Yes. What was it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I turned back to the fountain, wondering what it was I had once carved into stone, and why.

  * * *

  I was searching for something. What was it?

  Around me was the Whiterose Chasm with the high hills on either side rising, as far as I could tell, to the Enclouding. It was hard to keep my footing, because there wasn’t a spot of ground not covered in stones, and they were all different sizes. And I was moving the small ones, looking under the big ones, for—

  For what?

  I stopped and took a moment to breathe. It was important that I find it, I knew that; I could feel the importance in my stomach.

  “Kelham!”

  I turned and looked in the direction the voice had come from. She was about five rods away.

  “My lady?”

  “Are you all right, Kelham?”

  “Yes, my lady. Catching my breath.”

  “Very well.”

  I caught a glimpse of my sleeve: black, with the emblem of the Hawk on it. It seemed entirely reasonable that I be wearing the livery of the House of the Hawk, not even worth remarking on, except that, at the same time, it made no sense whatsoever. And, for that matter, who was Kelham, and why was I answering to that name, and why did it seem so normal that I was answering to that name? And what was I doing here, and why did it seem like I knew?

  And, as I was thinking this, I went back to moving stones and searching under boulders for—

  What was I looking for?

  I knew she was my liege, Lady Mundra, and she, too, was a Hawklord; I just didn’t know how I knew that.

  There was a small, shallow pond to my left, perhaps eight rods across, and on the other side was my sister, Ialhar, and she was also searching for—

  What was it?

  Meanwhile, the me that knew what I was looking for kept looking, until—

  “My lady!”

  The Countess looked up. “You found it?”

  “Not the signet,” I said. “But look there, just in the shade of the granite with the lichen growing on it … it’s moving, now it’s—”

  “I see it,” she said. “Good eye, Kelham. Rodwik, will you show yourself, or do I have to cast a reveal?”

  He appeared and my hand instinctively went to the sword over my shoulder and the enchanted dagger at my side. The Countess held her hand out to me, so I didn’t draw. My sister walked up and stood behind the Countess.

 
Rodwik bowed elaborately, hand sweeping the ground. “What an unexpected pleasure to find you here, Mundra.”

  “My lady,” said Ialhar. “May I cast a reveal anyway? He may have help.”

  “Do it,” she said.

  Rodwik started to say something, but before he had the chance, four of his people appeared, forming a loose ring around him. He smiled and shrugged.

  “Good work, Ialhar,” said the Countess.

  “You know,” said Rodwik, “I have more right to the signet than you do.”

  “Do you?”

  “I don’t mean legally,” he said. “I mean that we’re five to three.”

  “Dragon logic.”

  “You know, if you just give it to me, I might be able to duplicate it, then we can both have one.”

  “Yes, of course. Because wizards of our family have failed since the Fourth Cycle, but you’ll succeed, because none of them had such perfect teeth.”

  “Magic works better with an Athyra on the throne. I have the notes—”

  “Don’t waste my time, Rodwik. Attack if you’re going to, or else leave.”

  “Maybe we should find it first, then fight over it?”

  “How about if you just tell me where you hid it?”

  “Oh. You know about that.” He didn’t seem embarrassed.

  “I can use birds as spies as well as you.”

  “Ha. I taught you how to do that.”

  “Yes. Thank you. Now, where did you hide it exactly?”

  “I don’t think I’ll show you, my dear niece.”

  “In that case, attack, leave, or defend yourself.”

  “As you please,” he said. He drew sword and dagger, his retainers did the same, as did Ialhar and I; there was suddenly a lot of naked steel in the area. The Countess took her baton and let it expand to staff size, orbiting black pearls on one end, the other flashing red from the ruby.

  I moved toward the Countess to protect her; as I did I lifted my dagger and pointed a line on the ground in front of Rodwik, and sent Bornia’s Tremors along it. His retainers obligingly fell over as they tried to cross it, giving me time to reach her. Ialhar moved around to the other side, and we took what defensive position we could.

  “Blocked,” said Ialhar.

  “What do you mean? Who—”

  “I did a block to keep him from bringing anyone in,” she said. I caught the sheepish tone in her voice, but no one else would have. I was going to enjoy twitting her about it later. If there was a later.

  A five-against-three fight isn’t the sort of thing you look for—unless you’re a Dzur—but we had the advantage of having done this before, at the Lowferry raid, the fight at Land’s End, and twice at the Mundaara River Crossing. We fell into our pattern quickly and easily as far as sorcery was concerned: I kept up a randomly changing net of defensive spells, my sister cast counterspells to open holes in their defense, and the Countess looked for the openings or weaknesses Ialhar made to strike them. We hardly moved—my sister and I only moving our daggers to point to the spots we needed, while Mundra’s hands sent her staff through the motions needed by her attacks. I liked our chances with the spells.

  The trouble was, there were also those swords. Five of them, against our two and a staff. A staff is good against blades if you know what you’re doing, but not if you’re using it to cast spells.

  A sword was coming at my face and I knocked it aside, and kept my dagger weaving. I loved that dagger; it was deceptively plain, but I’d cast the enchantments on it myself, standing next to Edger the smith as he forged it. Enchantments that go into the blade at the same time it is forged are always smoother, stronger, and easier to reach than those added later, and with this one, the feather touch of command would bring the Tailspin to life where I wished, its endless, invisible turnings wrapping up any sorcery that tried to get past it, and even pull it in from the edges. It was a beautiful weapon.

  The next time the guy swung his sword at me I made a too-big sweep, pulling both of his weapons out of line, and plunged the dagger into his chest as hard as I could.

  I had a plan. A quick, hard stab to take him out of combat, and then back to the spell before any of them had time to exploit the hiatus. That was the plan. In fact, I had apparently struck bone, and the knife didn’t want to come out. I didn’t lose the grip as he fell, but it took a lot of work to hold on. When he was prone, I put my foot on his face and pulled. He didn’t like that, but he wasn’t in any condition to do anything about it. I raised the knife—

  —and something hit me.

  I didn’t feel it hit, but I was on my back, my ears were ringing, and I could see the fight happening about twenty feet away from me. I didn’t hurt, but I knew better than to think that meant I was all right; sometimes when the body is damaged, the mind folds a blanket over the pain.

  I watched Rodwik fall to his knees, rise, fall again, while one of his retainers cried as her lower leg dissolved in fire and smoke, then I must have blacked out, because the next thing I remember seeing was Ialhar’s face, very close to mine. She was looking me over, and she had that tight-lipped narrow-eyed expression she wore when she didn’t want me to know how scared she was. I tried to ask about the Countess, but my mouth wouldn’t work.

  “Don’t try to speak,” said Ialhar.

  I tested my limbs to see what moved, which was pretty much nothing. “Stay still,” she said, and moved her hands over me. She didn’t look any less worried. My left arm was one of the few things that worked, and there was something in it. I turned it over and opened the hand.

  “You found it!” she said.

  I had no memory of finding it; maybe I’d landed on it, or right next to it? I didn’t know.

  She took it from my hand and held it up. Behind her was the Countess, bleeding from her forehead, and with her right arm hanging limp, but steady on her feet. The Countess said, “Can you…?”

  Her voice trailed off, and Ialhar shook her head, and put the signet on my finger, and I heard music.

  * * *

  That was—

  What in the…?

  Who am I? A Hawk? No, I was …

  * * *

  My back hurt, my legs ached, and moving seemed like a lot more work than it was worth. I wondered if this was it. I mean, right now, this very instant. The little jolt of fear forced my eyes open.

  Not yet. Not quite yet.

  I was in my bed, in my room, surrounded by my things, and that’s how I liked it. My right hand above the blanket was spotted and withered and all of the veins stood out, but the nails were perfect, because Jaf had seen to that, knowing how much I cared. Dear Jaf. He would miss me more than most of my relations.

  On the wall in front of me was my lineage block, Lyorn on top, then the symbol for the Sixth Cycle Princess Loini who had made us official, then only three more symbols. We were still new in that sense, but I’d done my part; my own Tokni had given me three children before preceding me to Deathgate. I thought of her and smiled as Jaf came into the room.

  “I’ve found it, my lord,” he said. “A copy of a copy of a copy, I’m afraid.”

  I gestured with a finger, but he understood and placed it in my hand: a disk just a little larger than an imperial, made of smooth ceramic, very cold to the touch. I squeezed it tightly and looked a question at him.

  “Yes, my lord. Toknasa has vowed to bring you to the Falls.”

  I felt myself smile.

  My thumb caressed the disk, and visions floated before my eyes: droplets of water, a terribly, terribly bright light in the sky, a tangle of long vines, a life-size statue holding a pair of curved swords as if caught in the middle of a dance. Then they faded. I felt Jaf’s hand squeezing mine, and it was strangely comforting, and I had the sensation of falling backward away from my body at great speed, then all the world became silence.

  * * *

  Hossi found me in a copse of trees, just within the pickets. The latrines were behind me, but the wind was blowing the other way, so
it was fine.

  “What are you up to, Birn,” he said. “Reading?”

  “No,” I told him. “I’m just holding this book to discourage conversation.”

  He sat down next to me. “How’s that working for you?”

  “Great,” I said. “Perfect.”

  “If you’re serious about wanting to be alone—”

  “No, it’s all right.”

  I closed the book. He leaned over and read the spine, then made a “tsh” sound. “Don’t you know it’s bad luck to read that before a battle.”

  “Oh?” I said. “Is there going to be a battle, do you think?”

  He laughed more than it was worth. “Oh, I know there’s going to be a battle. I just can’t remember which side we’re supposed to be on.”

  “Who cares? It’s a Dzur reign; it isn’t going to make much difference anyway.”

  “Yeah, maybe we should just nap. Think the captain would mind?”

  “Think the captain would notice?”

  I stowed the book in my pack. When I’d closed it, he was looking a lot more serious. “This is a stupid battle to get killed in, isn’t it?”

  “Yes and no,” I said. “I mean, sure, a pointless border skirmish that won’t settle anything. But, battle is battle, right? And if we’re dead after the battle, we won’t much care.”

  He gave me a wry smile. “All the e’Drien women are fatalists,” he said.

  I elbowed his shoulder. “And all the e’Lanya men are philosophers. Let’s go and get killed.”

  The drum sounded, right on cue.

  We got up, went back to camp, pulled on our gear, and lined up.

  The drum started again and we moved out. “Duck fast,” he told me.

  “Duck fast,” I said back.

  An hour later I was standing over him while he desperately tried to stop the bleeding from a long gash in his upper arm that went down to bone. I planned to help him if people would leave me alone long enough, but things were busy: it was one of those chaotic, close-pressed battles where skill with a blade meant nothing compared to who was pressing hardest. I’d always hated those. You can get a minor wound and end up trampled to death by your own side.

  I was also bleeding myself, you understand, but only a few scratches.