by Steven Brust
He took his sword in his right hand and a long fighting knife in his left. I noted that he probably wasn’t going to use sorcery, or his left-hand weapon would have been different. My grandfather’s words came back to me, and I put a little more mental emphasis on the word “probably.”
He faced me, full forward, both arms extended, right arm and right leg a bit more. I came into a guard position, presenting only my side, and a look of puzzlement came over his features.
I said, “Get on with it.”
He took a step toward me and began an attack. At that time, I had no idea of just how much of an advantage in speed and technique there was to the Eastern style of fencing. I actually wondered why he was taking such big actions, and wondering prevented me from stop-cutting his exposed forearm. However, I still had time to shift backward, which I did, and his cut missed.
He came at me again, in the same slow, stupid way, and this time I did put a cut on his arm before pulling back out of the way. He made a sound of some sort and dropped his knife out of line.
His heart was wide open, with absolutely no protection. How could I resist? I nailed him. He gave out a yell, dropped both of his weapons, fell over backward, and began rolling on the ground. Before he hit the ground I was pointing my weapon at his companion, who was staring at me, wide-eyed.
I approached the uninjured one then and, as he stood there, cleaned my blade on his garments, still staring him in the eye. Then I sheathed my rapier and walked out of the alley, picked up my basket, and continued home.
On the way, I decided that my grandfather had certainly known what he was talking about: Wearing a weapon is asking for trouble.
I continued to wear it.
* * * *
Everyone should, at least once, have the chance to witness a fight between two wizards. I’d have preferred to watch this one from more of a distance, though. The air between them seemed to dance, and my eyes had trouble focusing. Loraan held a staff with his right hand, in front of him. The tip of it was glowing with a sort of gold, and images behind the glow were blurred and out of focus. His other hand continually made motions in the air, and sometimes my ears would pop—from what I’m not sure.
I could see that Morrolan was hard-pressed. He had lost whatever advantage he had gained, and was leaning against a wall. There was a black mist in front of him, pushing against something invisible that was trying to get through to him. From thirty feet away I could make out the sweat on his forehead.
Loraan took a step forward. Morrolan raised his hands. The black mist in front of him grew thicker. I recalled an old maxim: Never attack a wizard in his keep. The black mist dissipated completely, and Morrolan seemed to shrink against the wall. Loraan took another step forward and raised his hands. I recalled another old maxim, this one concerning wizards and knives. Loraan’s back was to me now, more or less.
My dagger caught him high on his back next to his backbone, though it didn’t quite hit his spine. He stumbled. Morrolan straightened and took a step forward. He turned to Loraan. Loraan promptly vanished; one of the fastest teleports I’ve ever seen. Morrolan gestured at him as he was going, and there was a flash of bright light, but I didn’t think it had accomplished anything. I entered the room and approached Morrolan.
He turned to me. “Thank you, Lord Taltos.”
I shrugged. “I can’t figure out how to get the staff out of whatever it is he’s got in in.”
“Okay. Let’s—”
Clang. The door burst open and Dragaerans started pouring through. About a zillion of them, give or take a few. Most of them had the sharp chins and high foreheads of the House of the Dragon, though I thought I saw a Dzur or two. They all wore the red and white of the Athyra. I looked at their broadswords and longswords as I drew my cute little rapier. I sighed.
“No, Vlad,” said Morrolan. “Get the staff. I’ll hold them.”
“But—”
Morrolan drew his sword, which assaulted my mind by its very presence, and the room seemed to darken. I’d known it was Morganti the first time I’d seen it, but he hadn’t actually drawn it in my presence before. Now ...
Now I suddenly knew it for a Great Weapon, one of the Seventeen. A blade that could break kingdoms. Its metal was as black as its pommel, and its heart was grey. It was small for a longsword, and it seemed to absorb the light from the room. The demons of a thousand years came and sat upon my shoulder, crying, “Run, as you value your soul.”
Our eyes locked for a moment. “I’ll hold them,” he repeated.
I stood there, staring, for perhaps a second, then snapped back. “I can’t get it out of—”
“Right,” he said and glanced around the room. If you’re wondering about the guards, during this whole exchange they were stopped in the doorway, staring at Morrolan’s sword and, I suppose, trying to work up courage to attack. Morrolan’s eyes came to rest on the pedestal on which end of the golden chain rested, the other end hanging, coiled in midair.
“Try that,” said Morrolan.
Right. Just the sort of thing I wanted to play with.
I raced over and, trying hard not to think, grabbed the end of the chain near where it touched the pedestal. It wa fastened, coming away easily in my hand, still coiling in midair like a snake about to strike. I crossed over to the door beyond which was the cell. I paused long enough to look at the tableau of guards and Morrolan. All of their eyes were riveted on that blade.
Perhaps their courage would have failed them and they wouldn’t have attacked, I don’t know. But while they were considering, Morrolan charged. One sweep of that blade and one fell, his body almost cut in half from right shoulder to left hip. Morrolan lunged and took the next through the heart and he screamed. A stream of what I can only describe as black fire came from Morrolan’s left hand and more cries rose.
I turned away, not doubting that he could hold them off—as long as Loraan didn’t show up again.
I hurried to the glowing cube.
The chain looked like it was made of gold links, each link about half an inch long, but as I held it, it seemed harder than gold. I wished I’d had the time to study it least a little. I ran my left hand over it, in a kind of petting motion. It wasn’t held in the air rigidly, so I pushed it down. There was a bit of resistance, then it hung free, like a chain is supposed to. I felt worlds better. I took a moment to reflect and to allow my life to pass before my eyes if it chose to (it didn’t), and then, for lack of any other idea, struck the chain against the orange glow, bracing myself to take whatever kind of backlash it generated. A light tingle ran up my arm. The glow became a flare and was gone.
A white staff with a rusty star at the end lay on the floor. I swallowed and picked it up. It felt a bit cold, and perhaps heavier than it ought to have been, but nothing happened to me when I touched it. I turned, holding my trophies, toward the sounds of mayhem.
As I walked back into the room, I was nearly blinded by a flash of light. I managed to blink and duck my head enough to avoid most of it, so I was able to look up and see perhaps two dozen bodies lying on the floor. Morrolan was standing, feet braced, his sword acting as a shield to hold off a barrage of white light coming from—
Loraan!
I cursed softly to myself. He now held both a red staff and a small rod or wand. The light was coming from the staff, and, as I entered, I saw him look at me and look at the staff in my hand; his eyes grew wide. Then he saw the chain and they grew wider, and I even saw him mouthing a curse which I recognized and won’t repeat. He turned the rod toward me. I fell over backward as a blue sheet of ... something came rolling toward me. I might have screamed. I threw my hands up in front of my face.
The golden chain was still in my right hand. As I threw my hands up, it swung out in front of me and struck the sheet of blue, which promptly evaporated. All I felt was a tingling in my arm.
It’s all in the wrist, see.
By this time I was flat on my back. I raised my head in time to see Morrolan step
toward Loraan, stop, curse loudly, and begin to gesture with his left hand. Loraan was still looking at me, which I didn’t like at all. Then he turned the staff so it was pointed at me, which I liked even less.
I felt as if I’d been kicked in the head and stomach at the same time, lying there on my back, waiting for him to do whatever it was he was going to do. Somehow he was holding off Morrolan, who would have killed him then if it were possible, so the wizard must have had some sort of sorcerous defense against physical attacks.
“Suggestions, Loiosh?”
“I’ll bet he doesn’t have any defense against witchcraft, boss.”
“Sure. Now just give me an hour or two to set up a spell, and—” No, wait. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Witchcraft is controlled psychic energy. Maybe I could—
I sat up, setting the chain to spinning in front of me, hoping that would prevent whatever Loraan wanted to do to me. I saw him gnash his teeth and turn back and gesture with the rod at Morrolan, who gave a cry and fell against the far wall.
I allowed my psychic energy to flow into a dagger I pulled, and I think I chanted something, too. Then I let the chain fall and threw the dagger. Loraan waved his arms and something hit me and I fell backward, cracking my head against the floor. I wondered which one of us would get it. Maybe both.
I heard a scream from what seemed to be the right direction, and then Morrolan was hauling me up. I shied away from his sword, but he held me. My left hand still gripped the chain.
“Come on, dammit! Stand up. He summoned help, and I’ve been holding them off for the last minute. We have to get out of here.”
I managed to support myself, and saw Loraan. My knife was in his stomach, and there was a large cut, as from a sword, in his chest, directly over the heart. He seemed to be rather dead. Morrolan was holding the white staff. Just about then figures began to appear all around us. Morrolan gestured with his free hand. The walls vanished.
We were lying on hard stone. I recognized the place where I had first arrived at DzurMountain. Morrolan collapsed onto the floor. The staff went rolling off to the side. I threw up.
Chapter 7
I began to feel a slight giddiness, but that was to be expected, and I could ignore it if it didn’t get any worse. I dropped my eyes from the empty spot in front of me and studied the glowing rune. If the rune was here, then the object of my desire was—there.
I touched the spot, making a small impression with my forefinger. I picked up one of the knives I’d laid out—the small, sharp one—and made a cut in the palm of my left hand. It stung. I held it over my right hand until I’d cupped a few drops of blood; then I let the blood dribble into the impression in the dirt. It was soaked up immediately, but that was all right.
I picked up the stiletto with my right hand, then wrapped my left hand around it, too. There would be blood on the handle, but that wouldn’t hurt this; might even help. I raised the stiletto high and focused on the target. It was every bit as important to strike dead on as it was when striking at a person. This was easier, though, as I could take my time.
The moment was right; I plunged the weapon into the ground, the depression, the blood.
I saw, for just an instant, a sheet of white before my eyes, and my ears were filled with an incomprehensible roar, and there was the smell of fresh parsley. Then it was all gone, and I was left with the rhythm, the glowing rune, and the queer landscape. And, in addition, a certain feeling of fulfillment.
The link was forged.
I began composing my mind for the next step.
We made it back up to the library and found seats. I closed my eyes and leaned back. Loiosh spent his time hissing at Morrolan and being generally jumpy. I was feeling a bit weak-kneed, but not too bad, all in all. Morrolan kept glancing at Loiosh, as if he didn’t quite know what to make of him. I rather enjoyed that.
Sethra Lavode joined us. She nodded to each of us, glanced at Loiosh without remarking on his presence, and sat down. Her servant, whose name turned out to be Chaz, came in and was sent out again. While he was getting refreshments, Loiosh was staring at the Dark Lady of Dzur mountain.
“That’s her, boss? Sethra Lavode?”
“Yeah. What do you think?”
“Boss, she’s a vampire.”
“I’d wondered about that. But is she a good vampire or a—”
“Have we ever run into her before? “
“Ummm, Loiosh, I think we’d remember if we had.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
While this was going on, the lady under discussion held out her hand toward Morrolan. He gave her the staff. She studied it for a moment, then said, “Someone is, indeed, inside of it.” As she was saying it, Chaz walked back in. He glanced quickly at the staff and went on with serving us. Well, if he can step over bodies, he can ignore people inside wizard staffs, I guess.
Morrolan said, “Is it she?”
“I will tell you anon.”
She sat there for a moment longer, her eyes closed. At one point Chaz stepped up behind her with a cloth and wiped her forehead, which I hadn’t noticed had become sweaty.
He still never looked up. Then Sethra announced, “It passes the tests. It is she.”
“Good,” said Morrolan.
“I will begin work on it then. Chaz, open up the west tower.”
As the servant left, without answering or acknowledging, Morrolan said, “Shall I ask the Necromancer to come by?” I didn’t know to whom Morrolan referred here, but I heard the capital letter.
“No,” said the Enchantress. “Perhaps later, if there are problems.”
Morrolan nodded and said, “How have things been here?”
“Difficult.” I noticed then that she seemed a little harried and worn out, as if she’d just been through a rough experience of some kind. None of my business.
Her eyes fell on the chain I was still holding in my left hand. “Is that yours?”
I said, “Yes.”
“Where did you find it?”
“An Athyra wizard gave it to me.”
She maybe smiled a bit. “How kind of him.” She stared at it for a moment longer, then said, “Have you named it?”
“Huh? No. Should I?”
“Probably.”
“Care to tell me about it?”
“No.”
“All right.”
She took the staff and walked out of the room. I wrapped the chain around my left wrist and asked Morrolan if he’d be good enough to teleport me back to my home. He said he’d do this, and he did.
* * * *
I’d first met Kiera when I was eleven years old, during an altercation in my father’s restaurant, and she’d been inordinately kind to me—the first Dragaeran who ever was. We’d been in touch off and on since then. Once I asked her why she liked me, when every other Dragaeran I’d met hated me. She’d just smiled and tousled my hair. I didn’t bother asking a second time, but I wondered quite a bit.
She wore the grey and black of the House into which my father had purchased orders of nobility, but I eventually learned that she actually worked for the organization—that she was a thief. Far from being disturbed by this, I always found it fascinating. Kiera taught me a few things, too, like picking locks, disabling sorcery alarms, and moving through crowds without being noticed. She offered to teach me more, but I was just never able to picture myself as a thief.
I don’t want to talk about all the boring business stuff associated with running a restaurant, but there was one time—I think I was fifteen—when it looked like I’d have to sell the place due to some weird tax thing. In the midst of trying to decide how to deal with this, the pressure let up, and the imperial tax man stopped coming around.
I’ve never been one to let well enough alone, so I started looking for him, to find out what was going on. Eventually I saw the guy harassing another merchant in the area and asked him about it.
“It’s been taken care of,” he said.
“How?
”
“It was paid.”
“Who paid it?”
“Didn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe?”
I thought fast. “I’m missing some money,” I said, “and there was someone who should have taken care of it, and I just want to make sure it was done.”
“A Jhereg paid it off. A lady.”
“Wearing a grey cloak with a big hood? Long hands, a low voice?”
“Right.”
“Okay, thanks.”
A week or so later I noticed Kiera in an alley, leaning against a building. I walked up to her and said, “Thanks.”
She spoke from out of her hood. “For what?”
“Paying off my taxes.”
“Oh, that,” she said. “You’re welcome. I want you to owe me a favor.”
I said, “I already owe you about a hundred. But if there’s something I can do for you, I’d be happy to.”
She hesitated, then said, “There is.”
I got the vague impression that she was making this up as she went along, but I said, “Sure. What is it?”
She pushed the cowl back and stared at me. She chewed her lip, and it suddenly startled me that Dragaerans did that, too.
It always surprises me how young she seems, if you don’t look into her eyes. She made a slow careful scan of the alley. When she turned back to me, she was holding something in her hand. I took it. It was a small, clear vial with a dark liquid inside; perhaps an ounce. She said, “Can you hold this for me? I don’t think it will be dangerous to you. It is dangerous for me to hold it just now.”
I studied the vial to see how breakable it was. It wasn’t very. I said, “Sure. How long do you think you’ll want me to hang on to it?”
“Not long. Twenty, thirty years maybe.”
“Huh? Kiera—”
“Oh. Yes. I guess that is a long time to you. Well, perhaps it won’t be that long. And, as I say, it shouldn’t be dangerous for you.”
She handed me a small pouch on a cord. I slipped the vial into it and put it around my neck.
I said, “What’s in the vial?”