Jhegaala (Vlad Taltos)

by Steven Brust

  “Get Dahni,” I told him.

  He looked like he was about to ask why but thought better of it, and just nodded. He went out to give the orders, and Aybrahmis came back in and fiddled with my left hand while I studied a painting on the wall to my right. It showed a waterfall. I like waterfalls. This one had a sort of dreamy quality, which is neither here nor there, but it did have the sense of motion, which is what a painting of a waterfall ought to have. There were also some effects where the droplets of water blended into the mist; a sort of fool-the-eye kind of effect that I liked. In my next life, I’ll be an art critic. I wondered which House an art critic was likely to be found in. I hadn’t read enough of them to know.

  Unlikely to be any of the six (or five, or seven) Houses of the true aristocracy, unless perhaps an errant Tiassa wanted to go that way for a little while if he felt he could inspire better work; but eventually he’d get tired of it and want to do the painting himself.

  An Issola might, if he could find a way to be critical without ever wounding the artist’s feelings; and if anyone could do that, an Issola could, but, really I didn’t think so. I had trouble imagining a Teckla getting the education and drive necessary to understand art and how to write out his thoughts and feelings well enough. An Orca wouldn’t do it because there wasn’t enough money in it. At least, I’d never heard of anyone becoming wealthy on the proceeds from writing art columns for the local rags. Jhereg? Please. It is to laugh. Vallista? Yeah, I could see that. Maybe a Vallista. When he isn’t making something, perhaps he’d enjoy ripping apart the efforts of those who are. Those things sort of go together. Or maybe a Jhegaala at a certain stage in his life, when he’s tired of one thing but hasn’t yet gone on to the next. I’d known a few; young Jhegaala flock to games of chance. Older ones generally avoid them, but pay up promptly if they play. They’re unpredictable bastards, though; just when you think you have a guy figured as a dull, boring clerk in a leather-goods store, he’ll suddenly turn into an art critic on you. Hard to pin a Jhegaala down; you never know what one will be up to next. And that could trap you—thinking you understood a guy, only to find out you only understood what he used to be like. That’s the thing about them, though: they’re always moving. A moving target, like moving water: You can’t pick it up, can’t keep hold of it if you have it. You try, and find your hand doesn’t work anymore. Because your hand is going from one thing to another, all the time, changing, moving, shifting. Everything shifts like that. As soon as you’ve figured out what something is, it becomes something different. Try to slap a label on it and you’ve just confused yourself. There’s more to understanding than finding the right label, just like there’s more to torture than causing pain. You have to keep the guy in the here-and-now; let his mind drift, and he’s beat you, because whatever you’re doing to his body, it’s his mind you want. Just like trying to fix a label on someone, you have to stay on top of it as it changes. You have to ride it, keep with it, turn when it turns, let it carry you, let it change you. It’s no fun, but what else can you do?

  “Your legs are splinted, and I’ve treated the burns as best I can and, ah, made certain you didn’t move in such a way as to hurt yourself further. There’s nothing more I can do for you right now, Lord Merss.”

  I nodded, still studying the waterfall, and tried not to shake. I heard his footsteps receding, and relaxed a little. Then I very softly, under my breath, got caught up on all the cursing I might have missed in the last quarter century or so.

  A servant I didn’t recognize came in with more soup. Have I mentioned that they had to hold the spoon up to my lips? After they were done feeding me, I shook for a while, which probably took more energy than I’d gotten from the soup. It didn’t taste very good either. Barley, I think, with not enough garlic and too much brownroot powder.

  I guess I slept for a while after that, until His Lordship returned, with Dahni in tow. Dahni looked like he wanted to look confident and poised.

  I managed to lift my right arm enough to beckon him. He tried to look jaunty as he walked. The Count gestured to the two men-at-arms—one of whom I think I recognized—to leave. I said, “No, my lord.”

  “Eh?”

  “You’ll want them here.”

  Part Five

  LEVIDOPT

  The female lays the eggs, the male protects them; yet, like the jhereg (and hence the common etymology of the names, see Appendix B, this volume), both sexes develop venom, as well as wings. No suitable explanation for this peculiarity has been postulated….

  The most important and most often overlooked aspect of the levidopt is that, in a sense recapitulating the entire development of the Jhegaala, it, too, is in a constant state of change.

  —Oscaani: Fauna of the Middle South: A Brief Survey,

  Volume 6, Chapter 19

  13

  L E F I T T Can’t anyone tell me anything?

  [Enter Tadmar]

  T A D M A R I can.

  L E F I T T Thank all the gods! Well then, please do!

  T A D M A R There’s a merchant at the door.

  L E F I T T (aside): I asked for that, didn’t I?

  —Miersen, Six Parts Water

  Day One, Act IV, Scene 3

  The guards hesitated—I guess my voice was a little stronger—and looked at the Count. He frowned. Dahni tried not to look uncomfortable.

  “Where is he?” I said.

  “And of whom might you be speaking?” Dahni asked.

  I shook my head wearily. “I’m too tired for this, and there’s no time. Unless you want His Lordship hunting you down wherever you go—and me, if I happen to live through it—just answer the bloody question. The Jhereg. The elf. The assassin. The Dragaeran. The man you’ve been paid to deliver me to. Where is he? Oh, and don’t try to pretend to be carefree and calm unless you can pull it off, it just leaves you looking ridiculous.”

  He looked at His Lordship, who, to his credit, had picked up my play immediately and put on a stone face.

  Dahni sighed. “Yes, well. If I tell you, do I get out of this alive?” He was looking at His Lordship.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” he said. “I can’t speak for him.”

  I said, “Not much I could do to you if I wanted to right now.”

  He glanced significantly at Loiosh and Rocza.

  “Oh,” I said. “Yeah, we’ll leave you alone.”

  “We’re not really letting him go, Boss, are we?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  He nodded. “About two miles northeast of town by the Lumber Camp Trail there is a row of old shacks. Right behind the third one is a trail that leads over a hill. At the bottom of the hill is a sort of office area the camp leader used to use. He’s in there.”

  “I know it,” said the Count.

  Dahni nodded, and looked like he was about to leave.

  “Not quite yet,” I said. “Did he give you a name?”

  “Mahket.” He stumbled a little saying the name, I guess because the stress was on the last syllable, and Fenarian never does that.

  I laughed a little. “Mahket” means “peace-lover.” He had a sense of humor, did this assassin. And no more desire to give his real name than I would have had. “When did he first make contact with you?”

  “It would have been, ah, two weeks ago.”

  I made the adjustment from the Eastern “week” to the Dragaeran, and nodded. “How did he find you?”

  “I don’t know. It was after His Lordship gave me the assignment to follow you. Perhaps a servant?”

  “Probably. Finding the local lord and pumping one of his servants for information would have been a natural first step.”

  The Count said, “I will discover who it was.”

  “If you wish,” I said. “I don’t think it matters much. If you paid your servants enough so they weren’t susceptible to bribes, they’d no longer be servants.” I turned back to Dahni. “When does he expect to hear from you again?”

  “Today
, an hour before dusk.”

  “And?”

  He winced.

  “Relax,” I said. “You’ve been given your life, and it’s much too late for any of us to start liking you. Now let’s hear it.”

  He nodded. “I’m to deliver a layout of the manor, precisely where you are within it, the position of the guards, and how closely you are guarded.”

  “And then?”

  “When he returns, I am to be paid. If he really plans to pay me, of course, and not to either just leave, or kill me.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “He’ll carry out his bargain. Or, well, he would.”

  “You know him?”

  “I know his kind. I presume you were paid something up front?”

  He nodded.

  “Then not only do you get to live, but, ah, one moment.”

  “Loiosh, how much gold am I carrying with me?”

  “I don’t know, Boss. A lot. Five pounds or so?”

  I said, “You can also pick up ten gold coins of the Empire. Pure gold. Interested?”

  “Ten coins,” he said. “Each coin is, ah, what?”

  “An ounce,” I said. “A seventeenth of an Imperial pound.”

  “That’s what you call an ounce?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “It’s an Imperial measure. What do you call an ounce?”

  “A sixteenth of a standard pound.”

  “And that isn’t strange?”

  “Good point.”

  “Well?”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Dissemble.”

  “I think I see where this is going.”

  “I suspect you do. Well?”

  He thought it over, but I knew which way it would go—I could see the greed dancing in his eyes. I knew that look well; I’d made my living on it, directly or indirectly, for many years.

  “All right,” he said.

  “Good. Give him the information, just as agreed. Only leave out this conversation, and anything else that might give him the idea he’s expected. As far as he’s concerned, everything’s fine. Understand?”

  He nodded.

  “Tell him things get quiet here about four hours after sunset.”

  He nodded again.

  “Do you think you can pull it off?”

  “Dissembling? What do you think?”

  “Good point. Look at me, Dahni.”

  “I am looking at you.”

  “No, look at what’s been done to me.” My voice sounded hoarse to my ears.

  He swallowed and nodded.

  “Keep it in mind, Dahni. Because I don’t trust you. And if you turn on me, I’m going to have you delivered to me, and this is what I’m going to do to you.”

  I looked at His Lordship, who looked back at me, hesitated, then nodded once.

  “I understand,” said Dahni.

  “Good. Go keep your appointment. You’ll be paid when—when matters have been attended to.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask how much I was to be paid for delivering you?”

  “I never indulge in morbid curiosity,” I lied.

  After he’d gone, and before I could make the suggestion, His Lordship turned to one of the guards and said, “Do we have anyone who can follow him without making it obvious?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then do so.”

  He dismissed the other guard as well, and we were alone.

  “Well?” he said. “Now what?”

  Now I wanted to sleep.

  “Send a troop. Good men, who can move in close before doing anything. Don’t give him time to get a spell off, assuming he can—”

  “Just kill him? With no warning, no capture, no trial, on your say-so alone?”

  “Yes,” I said, and waited.

  I figured I didn’t need to draw it out for him, and I didn’t; he finally nodded. “All right.”

  “Find a witch and tell him you need Nesiffa powder. A lot of it. A sackful.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the base of an infusion for curing migraines, but that isn’t what you want it for. It’s a powder, but each grain will stick to skin or cloth. You have everyone in the attack group carry some in his left hand, and throw it at the guy first thing.”

  “Because?”

  “He won’t teleport; that takes too long. When he realizes he’s being attacked—which ought to be no more than a second before the attack starts or we’re out of luck—the first thing he’s likely to try is to disappear, if he can. And he probably can; it’s a simple enough spell. Covered with that stuff, your men can still see him. It’s an old trick, but a good one.”

  “All right. What was it called?”

  “Nesiffa powder. Find good people, who can stay quiet. I mean, dead quiet. Hide outside of the cabin and wait for him to come out, and then just take him. No warning, or you’ll lose him.”

  He nodded. He didn’t like it. Me, the only part I didn’t like was the chance for a screw-up.

  “You’ll find a money belt in the box they brought in with me. Take—”

  “No,” he said. “I’ll see that he’s paid.”

  “All right,” I said.

  Once His Lordship was clear on everything, he wished me well and let himself out. The witches came in right away and changed my poultices and made me drink more disgusting messes; then the physicker’s assistant, whom I hadn’t seen before, came in and muttered various well-meant meaningless sounds and changed my dressings, after which I was finally left alone.

  I was exhausted.

  “If this works, we’ll be—”

  “In the same situation we’re in now, Boss. The Jhereg knows where you are.”

  “We’ll have bought some time.”

  “A day? Two days? A week?”

  “They’ll still have the same problem, Loiosh. I’ll have to be moved back into town is all.” I tried not to think of another ride in the back of a wagon. “One thing at a time, right, chum?”

  “Right, Boss.” He didn’t seem happy.

  As far as I could tell, Rocza was fine. I asked Loiosh and he agreed. “I think she was just trying to get my sympathy, Boss.”

  Sometimes, it’s best for Loiosh that Rocza can’t hear what he’s telling me.

  The next thing I did was sleep.

  I think I slept three or four hours, which was the longest uninterrupted sleep I could remember in a long time. The witches had returned, and they consulted each other in low voices while mixing things at the opposite end of the room so I couldn’t see. I guess they didn’t value my opinions. They came back and made me drink things, and put wet things on me. I had to admit, the wet things felt pretty good. Then I guess I slept some more.

  I awoke to Loiosh’s voice in my head, saying, “Boss, they’re back.”

  “Who? What?”

  I opened my eyes as His Lordship came into the room, flanked by a pair of guards, one looking bright and shiny, the other dusty and dirty and, yes indeed, bloodstained.

  I looked my question at the Count.

  “They did it,” he said. “He’s dead.”

  I felt a tension drain out of me, and I nodded.

  He gestured to the bloodstained guard. “Show him.”

  The guard came forward and for a second I thought he was going to show me the guy’s head, but the bundle in his hand was too small and the wrong shape. He unwrapped it and showed it to me. A dagger, about nine inches of blade, almost all point. Just the sort of thing I’d have picked. The metal was grayish black and didn’t reflect the light. I couldn’t feel it, but I shuddered anyway.

  “What is it?” asked the old man, harshly.

  “A special sort of weapon. It is—” I broke off. I didn’t want to say “evil” because it sounded silly. But no other word quite described that thing. “It is something you should keep. Set it aside, put it in your vault, make—”

  “I don’t have a vault,” he said too quickly.


  “—it an heirloom. Never use it. You probably don’t even want to touch it.”

  The guard looked even more nervous than he had before. Saekeresh nodded to him and said, “Set it over there, I’ll see to it later.” Then he turned back to me. “So, is it over, then?”

  “Over?” I said. “Not even close. But if you get me out of your house, and into town, it should be over for you. In any case, we can hope we have some time.”

  “There won’t be more of these, whatever they are, after you?”

  “There will, but they won’t have come together. At least, most likely. They generally work alone.”

  “But, these others, they’ll know where you are?”

  “I imagine whoever sent Mahket will know.”

  “So, then, when he doesn’t report back—”

  “Yes.”

  He rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth again. “You’ll be safe in the inn?”

  “I’ll be safer somewhere that isn’t here. And, yes, if he has to come into town to get me, he’ll be more likely to be noticed. In particular, because he’ll have one of those with him.” I gestured toward the counter. “There are enough witches in town that it’ll be noticed. And why is that, anyway? The place is lousy with witches. Can’t cross the street without tripping over one. Is this whole country like that?”

  His mouth worked. “Actually, we have fewer here than in many places.”

  Which reminded me that the number had been reduced by an entire family not long ago. Whatever shape I was in, I was better off than they were. Or Mahket, for that matter.

  I said, “Well, can you get word to them?”

  “Some of them. A fair number.”

  “Good. Let them stay alert for an ugly sort of foulness they haven’t encountered before. If they relax and let themselves, they can feel it a long way away. It will be a weapon of the same sort that you took from Mahket. When they feel it, another elf is here to kill me.”

  “What did you do to them?”

  “Eh, I made enemies.”

  He let it go.

  Aybrahmis came in with two guards and a servant, and they lifted me up and turned me over and changed the bedding. He asked if I needed to use the chamber pot, and I did, and the less said about that experience the better. The guards politely looked away. When I was back on the bed I was shaking. Then I was fed again, and after that I slept some more. I had dreams and woke up several times. During one of those half-awake, half-asleep times, I noticed Rocza suddenly being very affectionate—rubbing her head against my face, and licking the corner of my mouth—which was a new development. I asked Loiosh about it and he said, “She likes you, Boss,” which was oddly warming in my present state. Things between Rocza and me were always odd. I had acquired her, I guess you could say, by magic that shouldn’t have worked. I had summoned her the way you summon a familiar, but as an adult. She had taken up with Loiosh, and so stayed with me, but communication between us was vague at best and generally filtered through Loiosh. To discover that she had some affection for me was agreeably disappointing.