by Steven Brust
“I am as always, Vladimir.”
In other words, he knew I had something on my mind and that I wasn’t just coming over to visit. The thing is, I often come over just to visit, so how did he know? But never mind that. I took a tiny sip of tea, because I knew it would be very hot. It was; it was also very good, and not in the least bitter. I could have gotten by without the honey. I should have sampled it first. I said, “I have joined the army, Noish-pa.”
His eyes widened, and I was delighted to have actually managed to startle him. He said, “You have joined the army?”
“Well, after a fashion.”
He leaned back a little in his chair, which was a great deal like the one I was sitting in. I suddenly realized that my own furniture tended to be like my grandfather’s, as opposed to the hard wood and lightly padded stuff I had grown up with while my father was alive. “Tell me of it,” he said.
“I was attacked not long ago. Beaten and threatened. It was by a man who had no reason to attack me, except to warn me to leave him alone. I’d have left him alone if he had left me alone. Now I’m going to hurt him.”
“By enlisting in an army?”
“An army that is soon to attack him. I will be engaging in various special services—”
“Do you think this a good reason to enlist in an army?”
“Of course not, Noish-pa.”
He cracked a quick, gap-toothed smile. “But you are doing it anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Very well.”
He knew me, and knew when it was worthwhile to try to talk me into or out of something. He rarely tried to change my mind in any case, even when he might be able to. Loiosh flew over to him and accepted having his chin scratched. Noish-pa said, “What then do you ask me?”
“You were in the army once. What should I know?”
He frowned. “Vladimir, that was a different circumstance. I was a conscript soldier in an Eastern army; this is not the same as volunteering in an army of elfs.”
“I know that.”
“And we were soundly beaten in our first and only battle.”
“I know that, too.”
He stared off into the distance. “You will do a great deal of marching; protect your feet. Stay out of the way of officers—try not to be noticed. Do your share of latrine duty, but not more than your share, though you won’t need to be told that. Sleep when you can, but you won’t need to be told that, either. Trust your officers, even though they will not be trustworthy; you must trust them anyway because it is worse if you don’t.”
The implications of that last suggestion went home, and, in a certain sense, I became aware for the first time of just what I’d gotten myself into.
“It’s not too late, Boss.”
“Yes, it is.”
I remembered to drink more of my tea before it got cold.
“Are you hungry, Vladimir?”
“A little.”
“Come, then.”
We went back into his little kitchen, and I sat on a stool at the tiny counter while he made the one thing I’ve never been able to get to come out right: It is an Eastern bread, only slightly raised, and pan-fried in a very light olive oil. I think the trick is getting the oil at exactly the right temperature, and judging when to turn the bread, which is just before it shows any obvious signs of needing to turn; the dough was pretty straightforward, unless Noish-pa was hiding something, which would be unlike him. In any case, I’ve never been able to get it right, which I regretted anew as soon as the first one hit the oil and released its aroma.
I watched my grandfather as he cooked. His concentration was total, just as when he was crafting a spell. The comparison between cooking and witchcraft has been so overdone that I can’t make myself discuss it, but I’ll mention I was reminded of it again.
I let the first “loaf” (it looked more like a large, raised square of light brown dough) cool just a bit. I took a clove of garlic, cut it in two with my teeth, and coated the top of the bread with it. When I could hold the bread without burning my fingers too much, I bit into the garlic, let it explode in my mouth, then followed it with a bite of bread. I closed my eyes to enjoy the experience, and when I opened them Noish-pa had put a glass of red wine next to my elbow. We ate in silence for a while, and I enjoyed it until I realized that this would be one of the last decent meals I ate for a while. I wondered if it would be possible to teleport out of camp late at night, get something to eat, and teleport back. No, they’d doubtless have teleport blocks in place to make sure the enemy didn’t show up for reasons other than cuisine.
“You’ve really done it this time, haven’t you, Boss?”
I didn’t even tell him to shut up. I embraced Noish-pa and walked back through South Adrilankha. Not much time had passed, and the street musician was still there, this time singing something about a cockroach wearing leather pants. In a better mood I’d have laughed, but I still put some more money into his instrument case, just on the chance that it might bring me good luck.
I wanted to spend the next day preparing myself for what was coming; the trouble was, I had no idea how to do so. I wasn’t even certain what to pack, except to make sure I had my most comfortable boots and, of course, a good assortment of weapons. I laid them all out with a heavy cloak, a spare shirt, some extra hose, and shaving gear, and stared at them, thinking they were inadequate and ought to tell me why, then I stuffed them all into a satchel and headed over to the office because I couldn’t think of a good excuse not to.
Neither Kragar nor Melestav had much to say to me, from which I deduced that Kragar had, at least, hinted to Melestav about what I was up to. And, after all, what was there for them to say? Melestav kept shaking his head; Kragar smirked periodically. I didn’t think it was all that funny.
I canceled a couple of unimportant meetings because I just didn’t feel I could do them justice. I couldn’t decide if I hoped there’d be nothing to do so I could go home and fret or if I wanted to be kept busy with my mind elsewhere. After an hour or so of hanging around being irritated I decided I didn’t care and that I’d just take the rest of the day off. I’m the boss; I can do that.
I paced around my flat. I tried to read but kept getting distracted, so I went to a club that had music but only found it irritating, so I went to another club that had Fenarian brandy, and that helped. I wondered how many times, down through the ages, has Fenarian brandy or its spiritual equivalent, so to speak, come to the help of a man the day before he became a soldier.
Hell, that was stupid. I was not becoming a soldier. I was enlisting, as a formality, so I could march with an army and do nasty things to the enemy; I was certainly not going to be around for any battles. I drank some more brandy to that thought, then went home and went to bed, and some time later I fell asleep, and then I got up late the next morning and enlisted.
8
IN THE ARMY NOW
Fifty yards away there were about twenty Dragonlords, and among them, to the best of my knowledge and belief, were sorcerers skilled enough to be willing to take on the duties for an army. Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m good at what I do. But marching forward across an open field, in plain sight, and just starting to cut away was not, it seemed to me, the best way to accomplish my goal.
“Now what, Boss?”
“Funny, I was just asking myself that very question.”
I walked forward about half the distance; I was certainly the object of their attention now. If I had arranged an attack from some other direction, and my approach had been merely a distraction, it would have worked perfectly.
Shame about that.
I unbuckled my sword belt, let it fall to the ground, raised my hands, and kept walking.
“Got an idea, Boss?”
“No,” I explained.
“Well, that makes me feel better.”
Now it was just one foot in front of another, but with the destination in sight. There was horrid inevitability to it, as if I were just compl
eting a journey that had started weeks before, with a teleport to where Morrolan’s army was bivouacked; everything after that had been just continuing the journey. Maybe I never should have started it. I certainly felt that way when I appeared on the lea beneath Castle Black.
Skip the teleport; it’s getting as boring to relate as it is to do, though perhaps not quite so sick-making. I arrived near a wooden bridge that was larger than it had seemed from a mile up (go figure). It was a strange bridge, too, with a high arch and sticks jutting out at odd angles and, as far as I could see, nothing at all keeping it together. On the other side were two sentries holding spears, and behind them rows and rows of tents, all of them beige, all facing the same way, all of them an equal distance apart. A few banners fluttered in the light breeze. It was a bit cool out.
I looked for the banner Morrolan had described. I wondered what I’d have done if there were no breeze; how much confusion would that have caused? No, of course a sorcerer would have gotten up a breeze. In fact, maybe that’s what happened. I could probably find out by performing a—
“Well, Boss?”
“I’m procrastinating.”
“I know.”
I sighed and crossed the bridge. It seemed solid enough, and, yes, as soon as I crossed it I was stepping into an area protected from teleports. The sentries crossed their spears in front of me. One started to speak, but I said, “Vladimir Taltos, House of the Jhereg, to see Captain Cropper by orders of Lord Morrolan.”
They stepped out of my way, and one of them gestured to my left. I nodded, turned that way, and began strolling, with the camps to my right. The stream on my left gurgled and laughed at me. It was all bloody damned pastoral in that direction. Looking the other way, there was actually not much activity; I saw a few people sitting on makeshift stools outside of tents, but not many, and those paid little attention to me. There were also a good number of wagons at the far end, and I could see a few people unloading boxes into large, pavilion-like tents. Occasionally I’d hear laughter drifting over. A few small fires were going, and I could smell wood smoke and fresh bread.
“There it is, Boss. Green banner, black horn.”
“Where? Oh. I see it. I’d been thinking of a Lyorn’s horn or something, not the instrument.”
I crossed the hundred yards or so to the flag and looked around. There were no uniforms as such, but everyone had a little cap on, and each cap was decorated with a green badge with a horn on it; they also wore sashes, with the same badge near the left shoulder. I drew a few curious looks from those assembled, all of whom seemed to be Dragons. One of them had a silver braid about his left shoulder. He was sitting on an empty wooden crate next to the banner. He looked up at me and said, “You want something?”
“I’m looking for Cropper. Uh, Captain Cropper.”
“Who’s looking?”
“I am.”
He gave me an “I am not amused” stare and I reminded myself that I might be about to put myself in a position where this person would have control over my comfort, and maybe even my life expectancy. I mentally shrugged and said, “Baronet Vladimir Taltos, House of the Jhereg, sent by Lord Morrolan e’Drien, House of the Dragon.”
He studied me a little, I guess trying to decide just how much of an attitude he ought to display at this point. Then he stood and said, “I’ll tell him.”
He went over to a rather larger tent, clapped, was admitted, entered, and reappeared. “Go on in,” he said. I wasn’t sure if I ought to salute, so I didn’t.
Captain Cropper was old, probably getting close to three thousand, but had bright eyes, as well as bushy eyebrows and a pointed chin. He had a jacket with three silver braids around the right shoulder. He was seated on a rickety chair at a rickety wooden table and he was writing up reports or something. As I walked up he said, “I was informed that you were to be attached to my company. Welcome, I suppose. We will dispense with the swearing in because I’m not certain it would have any meaning, and I am unclear on your status with the company. I will find out in due time. For now, Crown will give you cap, sash, and bedding and show you to your quarters. And get rid of that thing.”
“That thing” was, of course, Loiosh. It seemed we were going to have trouble right from the start. “That thing” said into my mind, “Tell him if he gives me some of those silver things, I’ll forget the offense.”
“Shut up, thing.”
“He is required—”
“Sir!” He glared at me. I managed not to roll my eyes.
“Excuse me, sir. He is required for the operations I am to perform.”
He worked his mouth like a horse and said, “Is it necessary that it go around on your shoulder?”
“I could stand on your head, Boss, but you might get tired of that.”
“Yes, sir, it is,” I said.
Cropper glared at me again. “Very well,” he said. “That’s all.” And he turned back to his work.
He didn’t seem to expect me to salute either. No one was expecting me to salute. I’d been looking forward to it, too—it’s such a silly thing to do, when you stop and think about it.
I stepped out of the tent and found myself looking up at the man with one silver braid. I said, “You must be Crown, right?”
“Sergeant Crown,” he snapped.
“Excuse me,” I said, keeping all irony out of my voice. He had rather a square jaw for a Dragonlord, and very thick, bushy eyebrows. He wore a sort of jerkin that covered his arms to the elbows, showing off forearms that were thick and knotted with muscle and quite intimidating. I decided that if I ever had to go up against this man, I’d do so from a distance. I wondered if he was any good at throwing knives.
“Come along,” he said.
“All right.”
“Answer: ‘Yes, Sergeant.’”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
He grunted and turned away. I followed him. It occurred to me that achieving popularity was not the number one point on his program. He led me past the Captain’s tent and then down a long row of smaller, identical tents, pitched in triangles with flaps all facing the same way. I was the subject of stares, all curious and sometimes unfriendly, from those sitting around outside of them.
He stopped at one and said, “These are your quarters. You’ll find a cot, a blanket, canteen, and kit inside.”
I said, “Yes, Sergeant.”
“I see you have a sword. If you deem it, uh, insufficient, you may draw one of ours.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
He turned away. There were two Dragonlords relaxing on wood-and-canvas backless stools outside the tent. They looked up at me.
I said, “And a very pleasant morning to you both.”
It wasn’t, really; there was a nasty wind that made it a bit cold, and it smelled like it was going to rain. I mention this because one of them, the woman, said, “It is, actually; at least compared to the last couple of days. I’m Virt e’Terics.”
“Vlad Taltos.”
“Jhereg?”
The question seemed curious rather than hostile, so I said, “Yes I am, or yes he is, depending on which you’re asking about.” I turned to the man and raised my eyebrows. He turned away.
“His name,” said Virt, “is Napper. He’s of the e’Drien line. Don’t take him personally. Every squad needs someone like him to make bivouacs so unpleasant we look forward to battle.”
Napper gave her a nasty look but didn’t actually say anything.
“You may as well stow your gear,” said Virt.
“Sure. Uh, what exactly does that mean?”
“Shove it under your cot.”
“Oh. I can manage that.”
Napper gave a snort which I couldn’t interpret. Virt said, “For whatever it’s worth, we may be moving out any day.”
Napper spoke for the first time, saying, “What makes you think so?”
Virt pointed with her chin toward the supply tents. “The last couple of wagons have brought traveling rations. Besides, Sethra
Lavode hates keeping her armies in bivouac. If she can’t move them out, she likes to arrange billets.”
“Don’t matter,” said Napper. Virt smiled and shrugged with her eyebrows.
At this point another woman walked up. She glanced at Loiosh, then at me. “You must be Taltos,” she said. “I’m Rascha, corporal of your squad.”
I bowed my head. “Uh … how do I address you?”
“By name is fine. And you don’t have to salute.”
“No one has made me salute yet.”
She cracked a small smile. “I suspect no one knows quite how to deal with you.” Of all the soldiers I’d run into so far, she seemed the most “military”—she stood straight and stiff, making her seem taller than she was, and she wore her hair short and brushed straight back from her forehead; her eyes were dark and narrow. She also carried a sword, which I noticed because she was the only one so far who did.
Virt said, “What’s the story, Rascha?”
“Maneuvers this afternoon, and we’ll probably be moving out tomorrow.”
Virt nodded and didn’t give Napper any “I told you so” sort of glance. Napper, on the other hand, gave a snort which may have been a response to either piece of news, or both.
“Move where?” I said.
Rascha gave me a quick glance, and said, “You’ll know when we get there, Taltos,” in a sharp tone of voice.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Get your gear stowed.”
“Right away,” I said, and entered the tent, ducking low enough not to knock Loiosh off my shoulder. It was a bit cooler than it had been outside. There were four cots, and three of them had identical backpacks under them; I put my satchel under the fourth.
“You should have gotten a backpack, Boss.”
“Good time to tell me.”
I stepped back out. Rascha had moved on. I said to Virt, “The corporal seems easy enough to work with.”
“Yeah. She’s tough when it counts, though. She spent some time as a marine.”
“A marine?”
“A shipboard soldier. They’re the ones who go over the side and try to take a ship from the enemy. She saw some action in a skirmish with Easterners during the Interregnum.”