The Book of Taltos

by Steven Brust

  Only his hands seemed old—long fingers that were twisted and bent, with what might have been tiny scars all over the backs of his fingers. I have no idea what could have caused that. In his hands was a dark, thin tube, about four feet long, that was pointed at the staff inside the orange cube.

  The bastard was working late tonight.

  I would almost certainly have beaten him to the draw, as it were, if he hadn’t noticed me coming in. He gestured vaguely in my direction and I discovered I couldn’t move. A black fog swam before my eyes. I said, “Sorry, Sethra, not this time.” And nothing held me as I sagged against nothing, fell in, and was buried.

  6

  I stared at the flickering, weaving dance of the horizon and tried to decide if I liked it, or if it mattered. The thought that I was losing my mind came, and I pushed it aside. It is a not uncommon fear in such circumstances, largely because it sometimes happens. But I just didn’t have time to deal with it then.

  My eyes were drawn from the wavering landscape to the sorcery rune I had, for whatever reason, drawn on the ground before me. I blinked and it didn’t go away. I licked my lips.

  The rune was glowing. I hadn’t asked it to, but I guess I hadn’t asked it not to, either.

  I brought my palms together in front of me, fingers pointing out, and in the air I drew another rune, this one the verb “to summon.” I considered what nouns I might hang from it, shuddered, and almost lost control of the spell. Loiosh pulled me back and I dropped my hands back to my lap.

  The rhythm was still with me and the landscape still wavered and the rune on the ground still glowed.

  I think the other sound was my teeth grinding.

  I WAS UNCONSCIOUS FOR about twenty seconds, near as I can figure it. The side of my face still stung from slapping the floor, as did my right hand.

  I awoke slowly, and swirls of black dissipated before me. I know better than to shake my head under such circumstances; my eyes cleared.

  Loraan was leaning up against the far wall, staring past me, both his arms raised. I turned my head and saw Morrolan, who seemed to be fighting something invisible that was trying to entangle him. Sparks flashed in the air between them—that is, directly over my head.

  I was being rescued. Oh, rapture.

  I was about to try to convince my body to function—at least enough to get out from between the two of them—when Loraan gave a kind of cry, struck the wall behind him, bounced, and came careening at me. I would have put a knife into him then and there but he fell on top of me before I could go into action.

  This is called “not being in top form.”

  Loraan was quite agile, though, especially for a wizard. After landing on me he kept rolling until he ended up in the room with Morrolan, as well as the table, the sword, the staves, and all that stuff. He came smoothly to his feet and faced Morrolan.

  There was a bit of confused action lasting maybe ten seconds, including smoke and sparks and fire and loud noises, and when it was over Morrolan had his back to me and Loraan was too far away for any of my goodies to be effective.

  Loiosh, who had been so quiet I’d all but forgotten him, said, “Should we get the staff now?”

  Oh, yeah. Right. The staff. What we came for.

  I got to my feet, a little surprised that they worked, and moved toward the cube of orange light. I began studying the enchantment on it and muttering curses to myself. I didn’t know what it was or how it had been accomplished, but I could tell it wouldn’t be safe to put my hand in there; I could also tell that breaking it would be way over my head. I wondered if Morrolan would be open to taking a job. I turned back to the fight to ask him.

  I WAS ALMOST SIXTEEN when I decided I was old enough to ignore my grandfather’s advice, and started carrying my rapier. It wasn’t a very good one, but it had a point, an edge, and a guard.

  I’d been carrying it for less than a week before I learned that my grandfather was right. I was heading back to the restaurant from the market at the time. On reflection, an Easterner with a sword at his hip carrying a basket full of fish, meat, and vegetables must have looked a bit absurd, but at the time I didn’t think about that.

  I heard laughter as I was near the door and saw two kids, roughly my age (taking different growth rates into account), dressed in the livery of the House of the Hawk. They were clearly laughing at me. I scowled at them.

  One laughed harder and said, “Think you’re pretty dangerous, don’t you?” I noticed he was also wearing a blade.

  I said, “Could be.”

  He said, “Want to show me how dangerous?”

  I set the basket down and walked into the alley, turned, and drew, my pulse racing. The pair of them walked up to me and the one with the weapon shook his head in mock sadness. He was quite a bit taller than I, and may have had good reason to be confident.

  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, bu
t 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 it 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 one 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 wasn’t 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 much harder than gold. I wished I’d had the time to study it, at 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 ideas, struck the chain against the orange glow, bracing myself to take whatever kind of backlash it generated. A light tingling 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 was 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 Dzur Mountain. Morrolan collapsed onto the floor. The staff went rolling off to the side. I threw up.

  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.