by Steven Brust
“Yes sir, Colonel. Aye aye. Shutting up, sir.”
“I don’t suppose you have any experience in military reconnaissance?”
“I assure you, in the small fishing village I come from it forms the sole topic of conversation.”
“I hadn’t thought so. Still, you may prove useful. In the meantime, I appreciate what you’ve done. I’ll have payment sent over by messenger.”
“Payment is always appreciated. But I’m not entirely happy with the ‘you may prove useful’ business. I don’t suppose you could tell me what you have in mind?”
“If it were a Jhereg matter, would you tell me?”
“Of course. Openness and Honesty is my credo.”
He twitched me a smile.
I said, “Just out of curiosity, how does this work? Are you going to declare war on him, or what?”
“A formal declaration of war isn’t called for in an action of this type. I’ll just send him a message demanding the return of the sword, or accusing him of stealing it, and that will accomplish the same thing. But there are preparations to be made first.”
“Like gathering an army?”
“Yes, and planning a campaign, and, above all, hiring a general.”
“Hiring a general?” That time I was actually startled. “You’re not going to lead the army yourself?”
“Would you assassinate someone yourself if you could get Mario to do it?”
Actually, I probably would, but—“I see your point. And who is this military genius who is the moral equivalent of Mario? Wait, no, don’t tell me. Sethra Lavode.”
“Good guess.”
“I’ve always been bright for my age.” Then, “Wait a minute. How do you know about Mario?”
He looked smug again. I must stop giving him occasion to look smug.
I said, “You think Sethra will do it?”
“I know she will.”
“Because she’s a friend?”
“For that, yes, and other reasons.”
“Hmmmph.”
“Boss there’s a lot going on here that we don’t know about.”
“You think so? Really? Next you’ll tell me that a Dzur in the wild can be dangerous.”
“How ’bout if you do the killing and I do the irony?”
That, in any case, concluded the interview with Morrolan. I picked up the books I was borrowing and made my way down the stairs toward the front doors, where a sorcerer was prepared to make me sick again. I stopped at the landing and studied the painting there up close. It was ideally viewed from the floor below or above, but up close I could see the texturing that went into the detail work, and, though it strained my neck, I could study the head of the wounded Dragon. Even in a painting, there was something powerful and intriguing about the way those tentacle-like appendages around its neck seemed to wave and flutter—apparently at random, yet there was purpose in it. And the expression on the Dragon’s face spoke of necessity, but of a certain joy as well. The wound in its side, which was closest to me, was skillfully rendered to evoke pity but not disgust, and even in the young Dragon there was a certain hint that, though requiring protection, it was still a Dragon and thus not to be trifled with either.
My eye kept returning to those tentacles, however, as if they were a puzzle that might be solved, revealing—what?
“Dragons are more complex than they seem, aren’t they, Boss?”
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
“Especially Morrolan.”
“Yes.”
“Did you notice what he didn’t ask about?”
“Yes. He never asked about the weapon that was stolen.”
“You’re not as stupid as they say, Boss.”
“Save it, Loiosh. Instead, tell me what it means.”
“That he already knew about the theft. Which means when we were setting that trap, we weren’t doing what we thought we were. Although what we were doing I couldn’t guess.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Or it might mean something else entirely.”
“What else?”
I studied those tentacles again—random patterns that, somehow, made a kind of sense.
“That he knew there was a particular weapon that would be stolen, which means the theft wasn’t just a test or trial, but accomplished what it was supposed to, and there’s more to that weapon than we’d thought there was. Which would make sense, of course. Or Kragar’s idea: It didn’t matter what was stolen; the idea was to annoy Morrolan enough to start a war, just because he wanted a war. In fact, we were probably wrong about everything and, no doubt, still are. Whenever we come to a conclusion, we should just assume we’re wrong and go from there.”
Loiosh was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I like the artist.”
“So do I,” I said. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
I turned my back on the wounded Dragon and walked out of Castle Black.
4
CALL TO WAR
Sethra Lavode once gave me a brief history of battle-magic, but I don’t remember a whole lot of it; it wasn’t important at the time, and my acquaintance with her was new enough that I was thinking less about what she said than the fact that she was saying it. I do remember bits and pieces, however. Between what she said and what I subsequently learned from Morrolan and Aliera, I can give you a very rough overview. It goes something like this:
The earliest practical spells were reconnaissance and illusion; both very powerful, but easily countered. Later there were means developed of creating mass destruction, and all sorts of effort went into protecting one’s army. Defense eventually outstripped offense to the point where a soldier could usually consider himself safe from any direct sorcerous attack as long as he wasn’t carrying too much metal. It was somewhere in here that armor went by the board, except that some used (and still use) wooden armor, and wooden shields are still common, and warriors in the House of the Lyorn still wear copper or bronze vambraces to prove that they are fearless or stupid—two conditions I’ve never been able to tell apart.
Various methods were created for allowing the foot soldier to carry pre-prepared offensive spells into battle, and these, too, got stronger and more sophisticated, until some big battle, the name and date of which I didn’t pay much attention to, where some sorcerer found a means of making every one of the enemy’s “flashstones” blow up in his hand—which added a whole new level of spell and counter-spell, and made the common foot soldier leery about having anything to do with sorcery.
Offensive spells, after that, got bigger, more powerful, more sophisticated again, and often involved sorcerers working together to send huge, powerful spells capable of wreaking havoc on an entire force, and so, again, countermeasures were developed until battle became more a test of the skills of sorcerers than of soldiers and generals. This reached its peak just before the Interregnum with a Dragonlord named Adron, about whom the less said the better.
The Interregnum threw all of that out, and war returned to the proper mayhem of soldiers slaughtering each other like gentlemen, and since the end of the Interregnum the sciences of mass destruction have slowly been building up again, with the difference that, sorcery being now so much more powerful, it is hard to find a soldier incapable of some sort of sorcerous attack, and almost impossible to find one incapable of defending himself against sorcery. But the concentration required to cast a spell, or to defend against one, is concentration that isn’t being used to avoid the sharp thing someone is likely swinging at you. All of which means that, for the most part, sorcery is beside the point. At least for now. Check back again in twenty or two hundred or two thousand years and you’re likely to find a different answer.
To put it another way: In the early days of the Empire, when sorcery was simple and weak, it had little effect on battle; now, in the latter days of the Empire, when sorcery is powerful and sophisticated, it has little effect on battle.
Except, of course, against Easterners, who are helpless against it.
Th
is, at any rate, was how Sethra had explained it before I began my brief military career. In the battle, her words seemed more important and far less accurate; the enemy kept sending nasty spells at us, and sometimes they’d kill someone, and several times they almost killed me.
I hated that.
I would not have needed the lecture to understand what it all meant to the common foot soldier: It meant that, every once in a while one of your comrades would fall over, dead and twitching, with no visible sign of what had happened; that rather more frequently someone would go down, killed or wounded, after being hit by what looked like nothing more than a faint reddish light; and that, even while engaged in hand-to-hand fighting, you had to be aware that someone could be targeting you for something unhealthy.
At least, since the enemy was charging us, they couldn’t throw javelins at us, and the spells became fewer as we clashed. The first few seconds after the lines meet is the most intense time of the battle; it is more intense, to the warrior, that is, than the inevitable crisis point where the battle is decided. The first few seconds are when you don’t have to do any thinking; later the action gradually slows down, or seems to, until eventually you have time to let your fear catch up to you. As I said, I remember little of that first clash, but the thing I remember most is the sound of ten thousand steel swords thudding into ten thousand wooden shields, and the occasional clang and scrape of sword against spearhead. No, it wasn’t really that many, it just sounded like it. Loiosh probably made some smart remarks. It is often a blessing to forget.
I remember noticing that Aelburr was somehow on his feet again, wounds notwithstanding, and swinging away with a will; and I caught a glimpse of Napper, being happy about the only time he ever was, which irony was lost on me because I’d grown used to it. It’s amazing what you can grow used to with sufficient provocation, but irony, an old friend of mine, is just no good except at a distance. I wasn’t catching any irony at the time, though now I can realize how ironic it is that, in spite of all my worry, and in spite of Kragar’s comments, and in spite of Morrolan’s hints, I almost certainly would have been done with the whole business when the messenger arrived with my payment the day after I made my report to Morrolan.
I would have been, if.
They showed up at my flat shortly after I returned from the office after speaking with Morrolan. I opened the door in answer to an imperious clap. There were three of them, all men, all Dragonlords, and two of them were armed. The third said, “Your name is Taltos.” He pronounced it as if he’d seen it written but never heard it, from which I could draw conclusions that were, no doubt, useful for something.
“More or less,” I told him. Loiosh flew over and landed on my shoulder. I was worried, and even a bit frightened. I don’t worry much about opening my door, because the Jhereg considers one’s home sacrosanct; but who knows what Dragons think?
“My name is Ori. My Lord the Count of Fornia requests and requires you not to interfere in any way in his concerns. This is the only warning you will receive. Is that understood?”
I took a moment to work that through. Fornia knew that I was involved. Okay. And he was warning me to stay out of the way. What did he imagine I was going to do? And why was he even bothering to threaten me?
It was puzzling as well as annoying, but the annoyance predominated. Three Dragonlords—three, for the love of Verra, and one of them clearly a sorcerer, come into my home and tell me what to do? Even the Jhereg doesn’t do that. Even the Phoenix Guard, when they’re harassing the Jhereg, doesn’t do that. If a Jhereg or a representative of the Empire wanted to threaten or intimidate me, they’d have the courtesy to call on me in one of my workplaces—say the office, or a restaurant, or an alley. This business of having my home invaded set me off, but I resolved to be diplomatic about the whole thing. I said, “What if I request and require the Count of Fornia to kiss my ruddy burn?”
Both of the Dragonlords drew their swords as best they could in the confined space of my entryway; at the same time they moved forward. An instant later they fell backward; one because there was a Jhereg in his face, the other because I’d thrown a knife into his shoulder.
Ori raised his hand, but I knew very well what it means when a Dragonlord isn’t carrying a sword. At the same time as I’d thrown the knife (a boot knife, one of only four knives I was still carrying after disarming myself when I’d gotten home), I let Spellbreaker, about eighteen inches of gold chain, fall into my left hand. I set it spinning to intercept whatever he was about to throw at me.
Ori turned out to be pretty fast; some part of his spell got past, and I felt weak, dizzy, and I couldn’t move the right side of my body. I let myself fall over and started rolling away from the door.
The effects of the spell were short-lived; I was able to stand and come up with another knife—this one a stiletto, not well suited to throwing—and start Spellbreaker spinning again. If Ori threw something else at me, the chain got all of it, and Loiosh was keeping the one Dragon pretty busy, but the other one, my knife still sticking out of his shoulder, had picked up his sword with his left hand and was charging me.
This was cause for some concern.
There was no way to parry his sword with my stiletto, so I did the only thing I could, which was to move in at him and hope to get past his attack.
I felt my knife strike home, and, at the same time, something hit me in the side, and then I felt the floor against my face. I did some calculations as I was lying there: Loiosh could handle the one, and, with luck, I had disabled the other at the same time as he’d gotten me, but there was still the sorcerer to worry about. I tried to roll over, and noticed that Spellbreaker was no longer in my hand; this is where I got really worried. I tried again to roll over, and I figured I must have succeeded because I was looking at the ceiling; that was a start. Only the ceiling was wrong, somehow. I tried to get up, wondering when the pain was going to hit me. Someone said, “Lie still, Vlad.”
A woman’s voice. Whose? I knew it, but I couldn’t place it. But I was like Hell going to lie still. I tried to sit up again.
“Lie still. It’s all right.”
All right? What—?
Aliera e’Kieron came into view overhead.
“You’re at Castle Black, Boss.”
“Castle Black? How did I get here?”
“Morrolan came and got you.”
“How did he—?”
“I told him.”
“How could you—?”
“I wasn’t sure I could.”
“Am I ever going to be able to complete a—”
“How do you feel?” asked Aliera.
“Angry,” I said. “Very, very angry. I would badly like to kill someone. I—”
“I mean, how do you feel physically?”
That was a tougher question, so I took some time to consider it. “All right,” I finally said. “My side is a little stiff. What happened?”
“Someone cut you.”
“Bad?”
“Fairly deep,” she said judiciously. “No organs were damaged. Two ribs were cracked.”
“I see. Considering all of that, I feel great. Thanks.”
“Any pain?”
“Some.”
“It’ll get worse.”
“All right.”
“Would you like something for the pain?”
“Pain doesn’t bother me,” I told Aliera.
She didn’t choose to be impressed.
I’d first run into Aliera in a wizard’s laboratory, trapped inside a piece of wood, which had hindered our ability to get to know one another. Later, when she was breathing and talking and such, we’d been too busy for much chatting. I’d picked up that she was related to Morrolan—which wasn’t surprising, because I imagine most Dragons are related to most others, one way or another. As far as I knew then (I learned more later, but that doesn’t come into this story), she was fairly typical for a Dragonlord, except shorter. Evidently she had some abilities as a physic
ker.
“Who was it?” she asked.
“A Dragon,” I said.
She nodded. “So Morrolan informs me. I meant more specifically.”
“Someone in the employ of Fornia. There was a sorcerer named Ori; I didn’t get the names of the blademen.”
“What did they want?”
“They wanted me to stay out of their business.”
She nodded as if it made perfect sense that this request involved attempting to cut me in half crosswise. I suppose it makes sense to me, too. And it might even have seemed reasonable if they hadn’t walked into my home to do it. Maybe that doesn’t make sense to you, and maybe it is even irrational, but I’d been in the Jhereg for several years, and to us, well, you just don’t do that.
“Will you?” she said.
“Stay out of his business? Not anymore,” I told her.
She laughed a little. Her eyes were light brown. “You sound like a Dragon.”
“I’d challenge you to a duel, but that would just confirm your opinion, so I’ll pass.”
“Good thinking,” she said.
I kept my anger under a lid because it works better that way, because I can use it that way. It was a very cold anger, and I knew that it would sustain me for quite some time—for long enough, at least, to track down this Fornia and do unto him.
But not now. Now I had to stay cool and recover. I took a deep breath and let my vision wander. The ceiling was of some very dark hardwood; my own was a textured plaster of some kind and much lower—the trained eye picks up these details almost instantly. There were other subtle things that had made me feel I might be in the wrong place when I first became conscious—like, my entire flat would nearly have fit into the room, and every item of furniture—three chairs, a desk, a table, and a sofa—cost more than I made for killing a man.
I said, “What do you know of this weapon Fornia had stolen?”
“Why?”
“It seems to be the cause of all this unpleasantness; either the weapon, or the fact that he stole it, or …”
She waited. “Yes? Or?”
“Or something entirely different that I have no clue about. I always have to include that as one of the possibilities.”