Dragon (Vlad Taltos)

by Steven Brust

  “Fine,” said Morrolan.

  “Our symbol for life, you see, is expressed in the phrase—”

  “If you please,” said Morrolan.

  The Serioli looked at him. “Yes?”

  “What—or who—is the fifth?”

  “The fifth isn’t entirely here. But your friend of the Old People should know.”

  “You should know?”

  “Old People?”

  “How should I know?” I said. “Old people?”

  He made a growling noise in which words were hidden. Morrolan searched them out and said, “I’m not sure what that means. ‘People from the invisible lights’?”

  “Small invisible lights.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Well, if you can’t see them, I don’t suppose it matters much how big they are.” Then, “But were you speaking of Spellbreaker?”

  “Is that what you call it?” He made his laughing sound again.

  “What would you call it?”

  “Spellbreaker,” he said, “is as good a name as any, for now.”

  “You’re saying I’m holding a Great Weapon?”

  “No, you are not. Not yet.”

  “Not yet,” I repeated. I let Spellbreaker, which I kept coiled around my left wrist, fall into my hand. I studied it. It seemed shorter than it had the last time I looked at it, and the links appeared to be smaller. “Not yet?”

  “Someday, there will be a weapon—” He stopped and his lips worked. Then he resumed, “Someday, there will be a weapon called ‘Remover of aspects of deity.’”

  I repeated this name and shrugged.

  “Godslayer,” said Morrolan.

  “If you wish,” said the Serioli.

  “What has this to do with my chain?”

  “Everything,” said the Serioli. “Or nothing.”

  “Do you know, I get tired of people speaking in riddles.”

  Our host made his laughing sound again. I wrapped Spellbreaker around my wrist. “Fine,” I said. “How do I find this weapon?”

  “Uh … Boss? Why do you want to?”

  “I’m not certain I do, but—”

  “To find it, you must first find—” He clicked some more.

  I looked at Morrolan. “Artifact in sword form that searches for the true path.” He looked at the Serioli to see if the translation was approved.

  “Not far off. But I am uncertain if ‘true path’ would be precisely the way to say it. I might suggest ‘an object of desire when the path is true.’ The form of ‘path’ is made abstract by the final ‘tsu.’”

  “I see,” said Morrolan. “Thank you.”

  I wondered if Morrolan had any idea what he was talking about. Probably, since he spoke the language. I said, “Would you like to tell me more?”

  “The two artifacts were, or are to be, created together—”

  “Excuse me, but is there a simple explanation for this ‘were or are to be’ thing?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. All right.” I dropped it. Whenever anyone starts talking about the odd things time can do, I think about the Paths of the Dead, and I didn’t care to think about that just then.

  “Some of our people,” he continued, “desired divinity and crafted artifacts to find and then destroy those who sit on the Thrones of Judgment. One of these became something other than what it had been designed to be; it became a device for the finding of—well, for the finding of whatever the wielder wished to find, based on the principle that all of life, including the desire of will, is part of—”

  “If you please,” said Morrolan. “The other?”

  “The other was taken by the Gods, and an attempt was made to destroy it.”

  “I can imagine,” I said under my breath.

  “Both are now lost; when one is found, the other is likely to turn up.”

  “And what I have—”

  “What you have,” he said, staring at me with an expression I couldn’t read, “is a gold chain that is useful for interrupting the flow of energies from—” He concluded the sentence with another word or phrase in his own language. I looked at Morrolan for a translation, but the Dragonlord was chewing his lip, frowning, and seemed to be busy with thoughts of his own. That was all right; I could make a pretty good guess.

  I said, “Well, that’s certainly something to think about. But I believe Morrolan brought us here to ask you something.”

  Morrolan blinked and looked at me. “Pardon?”

  “I was suggesting that you ask our friend whatever it is you wanted to ask him about.”

  “Oh. I already have.”

  “You—all right.”

  “Loiosh, did you catch any psychic communication?”

  “No, Boss. But I might have missed it. This character is weird.”

  “You think?”

  Whatever information Morrolan had been after, he’d clearly gotten it. He made a few courtesies, which I did my best to mimic, then, bowing, he led the way back out of the cave. As we walked, I said, “I forgot to ask why the place smelled of brimstone.”

  He didn’t answer.

  Once we were back outside, I said, “So, how do you make the window reappear?”

  He didn’t answer that, either, but made a few nonchalant gestures in the air, and it occurred to me that there was no reason to make the window appear; he could simply teleport us to Castle Black. I’d have suggested that I preferred the other method of travel, but he didn’t seem to be in a mood to listen.

  My bowels twisted and the mountains vanished, and we were back in the room which we’d first left, and without so much as a pause Morrolan said, “Thank you, Vlad, I am glad to have had you along.”

  “Mind if I sit for a moment?” I managed. It wasn’t just the aftereffects of the teleport, it was the realization that I’d have to teleport again when I left.

  “Not at all.”

  He drew a curtain over the window we’d lately walked through. I looked around the room again, just to kill time. For the center of power for a powerful sorcerer, there wasn’t a whole lot there: the table, two chests. And the windows. I counted nine of them. Then I counted eight of them. Then I counted nine again, then I counted ten. By then my stomach had settled down so I quit counting and stood up.

  “Feeling better?”

  I looked for traces of a sneer and didn’t notice any. “Yes, thanks. Lead on.”

  He brought us back down the narrow metal stairway and through the labyrinth of Castle Black—a labyrinth I was beginning to learn, thanks to Fentor and the work I was doing on Morrolan’s security (which I know I haven’t mentioned much, but it doesn’t really come into this story; there was a fair bit of work involved, and some interesting things happened, but I don’t want to take the time to go into it right now).

  “So,” I said. “Would you care to tell me what you learned?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “Would you care for a drink?”

  “No, thanks. I’m teleporting.”

  “Ah, yes, certainly.” He reached into his cloak and removed a small purse.

  “No, no,” I said. “This one’s gratis.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes. I learned enough to pay for the experience.”

  “Oh? And …” He decided not to ask what I’d learned because he knew very well how I’d answer.

  Loiosh said, “Did I miss something? What did you learn?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted to give Morrolan something to think about.”

  “I hope it was worth whatever he was going to pay you.”

  Morrolan said, “Are you still determined upon the course of action to which you previously referred?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said—”

  “No, never mind. I think I got part of that. Yeah, I’m still willing to do what I can to mess up this guy’s program, if you think it’ll help.”

  “Good. We will begin the muster tomorrow. The following day you may, if you are still willing,
of course, report to your unit, Cropper Company, at noon. It will be assembling on the lea below Castle Black, north of the stone wall. Look for a green banner with a black horn upon it.”

  I opened and shut my mouth a few times, then said, “So soon?”

  “If you can give me a good reason to delay, I’ll consider the matter.”

  “I’ll think about it and get back to you. But can’t I just teleport to someplace where I’ll do some good, instead of joining a company?”

  “What makes you think the enemy will allow teleports anywhere in the area? Or, for that matter, that I will?”

  “Will you?”

  “No.”

  “I see. Well, what about your window?”

  “I won’t be here, I’ll be with the army.”

  “Oh.”

  “Any other questions?”

  “Uh … Why that company?”

  “Is there another you’d prefer?”

  “I haven’t a clue, Morrolan. I just wondered what it is about them—”

  “They’ll be in the van during the first stage, which makes it most convenient for your activities, and Cropper, the Captain, is easier to work with than some. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. How do I get home? I don’t feel like doing my own teleport.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “My office.”

  “I’ll bring you.”

  “You mean you’ll send me?”

  “I was thinking of bringing you. I’d like to see where you work.”

  “Heh. That’ll shake up the staff,” I said. “Sure.”

  “Then open your mind and think of your office.”

  I had him bring us to the street outside, pointed out some sights to him while I recovered, and noticed that he was attracting a certain a mount of attention: Dragonlords aren’t often seen in the company of Easterners. On the other hand, no one wanted to stare too blatantly; people mind their own business in my neighborhood.

  I led him through the various fronts and up into the suite of rooms I worked out of. Melestav looked up when I came in, then saw who was behind me and nearly sprang to his feet.

  “Melestav,” I said, “the Lord Morrolan.”

  Melestav didn’t find anything to say, which amused me. Morrolan looked around. “If I didn’t know better,” he said, “I should say that this was the office of an advocate.”

  “What were you expecting? Bottles of poison and shelves of garrotes?”

  “I’m not certain,” said Morrolan. “Perhaps that is why I wanted to see it.”

  “Here’s where I work,” I said, leading the way. Kragar, whom I hadn’t noticed, stepped out of our way.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Kragar, the Lord Morrolan.”

  “We’ve met,” said Kragar.

  “Forgive me if I don’t bow,” said Morrolan.

  I showed him in, and had him sit in the chair opposite me. “So,” I said, “you need more time to pay me back. Well, maybe we can work something out.”

  “There is a disparity,” he said, “between what you do and the surroundings in which you do it. It is interesting.” Which was when I suddenly realized that he wanted to be here because he wanted to learn about me—that is, he was learning about a potential ally or possible enemy, in much the same way he would investigate military positions, or I would study someone with whom I had business. It was reasonable, but it made me very uncomfortable.

  “I had the same reaction, a few days ago.”

  He stared at me hard for a moment, then continued looking around my office.

  “Ask him if he wants a job, Boss.”

  “Maybe later, Loiosh.”

  “Well, thank you, Vlad. I’ll be going now.”

  “I’ll show you out,” I said, and I did, then returned to my desk, sat down, and said, “So, Kragar, it’s like this, you see … .”

  He waited for me to continue, his eyes narrowed, his head tilted, and his expression one of intense suspicion. At length, when I refused to finish the thought, he said, “What was he doing here?”

  “Checking me out. But that isn’t what I wanted to talk about.”

  “Oh?” he said. “It must be my latent Dragon instincts that tell me you’ve either done something stupid or you’re going to ask me to do something unpleasant, or both.”

  “Both, I think.”

  He nodded, his expression unchanging.

  “I’d like you to run things here while I’m gone. It’ll be at least—”

  “That’s both, all right.”

  “—a couple of days, maybe a month or more.”

  He frowned and thought about it. At last he said, “I don’t much like the idea. I’m an executive officer type, not a commander. That’s how I like it, you know.”

  “I know.”

  He considered some more. “Offer me a lot of money.”

  “I’ll give you a lot of money.”

  “All right.”

  “Good.”

  “What will you be doing?”

  “Following up on your idea.”

  “Which one?”

  “Sabotage and sundry nuisance for an army.”

  “I see.”

  “Morrolan has assigned me to a company.”

  “I imagine he has.”

  “Anything I should know about military life before I show up?”

  He laughed. “I don’t know where to start. For one thing, expect to hate it.”

  “Oh, I do.”

  “For another, if you start letting yourself get pushed around—I mean by your messmates, not your superior officers—it’ll never stop, or else you’ll have to kill someone, which won’t be good for anyone.”

  “Got it.”

  “And for another, if your messmates even suspect you aren’t going to be holding up your end in battle, they’ll make your life miserable.”

  “One question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “What’s a messmate?”

  “I can see,” said Kragar slowly, “that you’re going to need a great deal of preparation for this.”

  If you follow Dockside Road as it meanders generally east and a little south (following the docks, amazingly enough) you’ll eventually reach a place where it opens up into a market area, from which Bacon Street springs off down a hill. Assume that the wind is from the north or west because if it is from the south or east you won’t make it that far, and you’ll soon see a row of short, squat, ugly brick buildings wedged right up against a very low section of the cliffs of Adrilankha. These are the slaughterhouses, and they’re positioned so when the meat has been sliced, seasoned, smoked, salted, and packed it can be dumped over the cliff on shipping nets, from which it can then be stowed in the holds of the merchant ships which will try to get it to its destination before too much of it has become too disgusting to be eaten.

  Go on past it, and hope the wind fortuitously changes direction right about there (nothing, but nothing, smells as bad as a slaughterhouse on a hot day) and you’ll start climbing up again, and somewhere in there Bacon Street becomes Ramshead Lane, and you’ll notice that the stench diminishes and changes (garbage doesn’t smell quite as bad as a slaughterhouse) but doesn’t go away and that the dwellings are mostly wood, and packed tightly together, and unpainted, and you’re now in South Adrilankha, and you are welcome to tell me why you bothered to come in the first place. I was there because I had family in the district.

  I knew the streets here almost as well as I knew my own area, so I paid little attention as we walked past bakeries and tanners and ironmongers and witches and prostitutes, following the turnings in the road and occasionally nodding at anyone who dared to make eye contact with me, because I don’t go out of my way to be intimidating to other Easterners. It is a relief, in any case, to see people who are sometimes bald and sometimes fat and sometimes short and sometimes have whiskers, because Dragaerans can’t manage any of these things—what they see as better I see as more limited.

  We passed a street
minstrel who was singing in one of the more obscure Eastern languages, and I dropped a few orbs into his instrument case.

  “Boss, was he singing what I thought he was singing?”

  “A young man tells his beloved of his love for her.”

  “‘My little hairy testicle—’”

  “It’s a cultural thing, Loiosh. You wouldn’t understand.”

  We came to a street called Strangers Road, and south of it was a neighborhood called Six Corners where everything changed at night; I know of nothing like it anywhere else in Adrilankha, or in any part of the Empire. But here is a fish shop during the day; at night the unsold fish are thrown away and it becomes a place to buy homemade untaxed liquor, especially brandy. Next to it is a bootmaker’s, until night, when the boots are locked away beneath the floor and it becomes an untaxed gambling hall. That baker goes home for the day, and another man comes at night, opens the back, unfolds rows of mattresses, and turns the place into one of the most wretched brothels in the City.

  I rather preferred the district in the day, though at night it felt more like home.

  And then, just after passing out of Six Corners, we eventually reached a small witchcraft supply shop at the corner of two unnamed and unmarked streets, and I walked in under the awning, setting the chimes ringing. I was greeted at once by Ambrus, the cat, who emerged from under the hanging rugs and was followed by my grandfather, who parted them carefully before stepping through. “Hello, Vladimir,” he said. “It is good to see you. Sit down and have tea.”

  Ambrus crouched before me, preparing to spring. I made a basket of my arms, caught him, and carried him past the rugs and into the shop or the house—it was the same place and hard even for me to tell which items were for sale or use by customers and which were strictly personal. For example, you’d think the self-portrait was personal, wouldn’t you? Just goes to show you. Loiosh and Ambrus, having established their relationship early on, determinedly ignored one another’s existence.

  I sat in a grey stuffed chair, set the cat on my lap, and took the small, delicate porcelain teacup from my grandfather. It was painted blue, and the tea was red. I squeezed lemon into it, added a trace of honey, and said, “How are you, Noish-pa?”