by Steven Brust
“Mostly, does Sethra Lavode really exist?”
“She certainly did before the Interregnum. There are still accounts of when she was a regular at court. Deathgate, boss, she was Warlord more than once.”
“When?”
“About fifteen thousand years ago.”
“Fifteen thousand years. I see. And you think she might still be alive? That’s, what, five or six times a normal life span?”
“Well, if you believe the rumors, fledgling heroes from the House of the Dzur like to chase up the mountain every so often to fight the evil enchantress, and they’re never heard from again.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But the question is, do we believe the rumors?”
He blinked. “I don’t know about you, Vlad, but I do.”
I ruminated on moldy legends, enchantresses, dishonest button-men, and mountains.
“You just can’t trust anyone anymore,” said Loiosh who flew down onto my right shoulder.
“I know. It’s a sad state of affairs.” Loiosh snorted psionically. “No, I mean it,” I said. “I trusted the son of a bitch.”
I took out a dagger and started flipping it. After a while I put it away and said, “All right, Kragar. Send a message to the Lord Morrolan, asking him if he’d deign to receive me. Whenever he wishes, of course; I’m not—say! How do you get there, anyway? I mean, if it’s a floating castle—”
“You teleport,” said Kragar.
I groaned. “Okay. Try to set it up, all right? And get the coordinates to Narvane. I don’t feel like spending the money on the Bitch Patrol, so I’ll just live with a rough ride.”
“Why don’t you do it yourself, then?”
“Not that rough.”
“You getting cheap, boss?”
“What do you mean, getting?”
“Will do, Vlad.”
Kragar left the room.
NOW THAT I HAVE a few years’ perspective, I have to say that I don’t think my father was cruel to me. The two of us were alone, which made everything difficult, but he did as well as he could for who he was. And I do mean we were alone. We lived among Dragaerans, rather than in the Eastern ghetto, so our neighbors didn’t associate with us, and our only other family was my father’s father, who didn’t come to our side of town, and my father didn’t like bringing me to Noish-pa’s when I was an infant.
You’d think I’d have gotten used to being alone, but it hasn’t worked that way. I’ve always hated it. I still do. Maybe it’s an instinctive thing among Easterners. The best times were what I now think must have been slow days at the restaurant, when the waiters had time to play with me. There was one I remember: a big fat guy with a mustache and almost no teeth. I’d pull his mustache and he’d threaten to cook me up for a meal and serve me with an orange in my mouth. I can’t think why I thought that was funny. I wish I could remember his name.
On reflection, my father probably found me more a burden than a pleasure. If he ever had any female companionship, he did a good job of keeping it hidden, and I can’t imagine why he would. It wasn’t my fault, but I guess it wasn’t his, either.
I never really liked him, though.
I suppose I was four years old before my father began taking me regularly to visit my grandfather. That was the first big change in my life that I remember, and I was pleased about it.
My grandfather did his job, which was to spoil me, and it is only now that I’m beginning to realize how much more he did. I must have been five or six when I began to realize that my father didn’t approve of all the things Noish-pa was showing me—like how to make a leaf blow slightly askew of the wind just by willing it to. And, even more, the little slap-games we’d play that I now know to be the first introduction to Eastern-style fencing.
I was puzzled by my father’s displeasure but, being a contrary little cuss, this made me pay all the more attention to Noish-pa. This may be the root of the problems between my father and me, although I doubt it. Maybe I look like my mother, I don’t know. I’ve asked Noish-pa who I resemble, and all he ever says is, “You look like yourself, Vladimir.”
I do know of one thing that must have hurt my father. One day when I was about five I received my first real beating, which was delivered by, I think, four or five punks from the House of the Orca. I remember that I was at the market running an errand of some sort, and they surrounded me, called me names I can’t remember, and made fun of my boots, which were of an Eastern style. They slapped me a few times and one of them hit me in the stomach hard enough to knock the wind out of me; then they kicked me once or twice and took the money I had been given to make the purchases. They were about my own size, which I guess means they were in their late teens, but there were several of them, and I was pretty banged up, as well as terrified of telling my father.
When they were finished with me, I got up, crying, and ran all the way to South Adrilankha, to my grandfather’s house. He put things on the cuts that made me feel better, fed me tea (which I suspect he spiked with brandy), brought me home, and spoke to my father so I didn’t have to explain where the money had gone.
It was only years later that I actually got around to wondering why I’d gone all the way to Noish-pa’s, instead of going home, which was closer. And it was years after that when I got to wondering if that had hurt my father’s feelings.
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.
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 Dragon lord. 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 when 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.