by Steven Brust
“It comes from Sethra the Younger.”
Her green eyes narrowed and appeared slightly grey. “Sethra the Younger,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“What does she want?”
“Kieron’s greatsword.”
“Indeed? The sword of Kieron the Conqueror. She wants me to give it to her. Well, isn’t that sweet.”
“I’m just passing on a message.”
“Uh-huh. And what is she offering for it?”
“I think you can guess, Aliera.”
Aliera studied me, then slowly nodded. “Yes, I suppose I can, at that. Why don’t you both sit down.”
She looked at us, her grey eyes squinting. She held her wineglass, a fine piece of cut crystal, so that the chandelier made a rainbow through it that decorated the dark wood table next to her.
“What do you two think?” she said at last.
“We’re delighted, of course,” I said. “We’d like nothing better than to have Sethra the Younger butcher a few thousand Easterners.”
She nodded. “There’s more to this than that, however.”
“Yes,” I said. “There is.”
“I’m surprised you’re even bringing me the proposition.”
“I wasn’t going to,” I said. “But Cawti talked me into it.”
Aliera turned an inquiring gaze at Cawti, who said, “It’s something you should know about.”
She nodded. “Morrolan claims to have an idea what it is, but Sethra the Younger claimed it, and he didn’t have the—well, he chose not to dispute it.”
“If you get it,” I said, “he still won’t. Unless you give it to him.”
“It may be,” she said, “that, whatever it really is, a Great Weapon, as we suspect, or something else entirely, it has been trying to come to me all along.”
I thought back on the Serioli, and on the Wall, and on everything that had happened, and I said, “That is a disgusting thought.”
She turned her glance to me, frowning as if I’d spoken in a foreign language, but continued her thought without answering me. “If so, to fail to take it would be to ask for more trouble, and greater.”
“On the other hand,” I said, “I seem to remember Kieron the Conqueror promising to come after you if you gave his sword away.”
“Yes,” said Aliera. “And that is, of course, another advantage.”
11
BREAKFAST WITH CHEF VLADIMIR
There was a certain amount of doubt in the eyes of the soldiers in front of me, either because they weren’t all that happy about cutting down a single unarmed Easterner or, more likely, because Ori was not authorized to give them orders. But for whatever reason, they hesitated; Ori, on the other hand, did not. He took a step forward, and as his arm came up, I let Spellbreaker fall into my hand, and then there was something black and ugly crackling and coming toward me.
And here my memory plays tricks on me again, because I know how fast such things move, and so I know I didn’t really have time to make the cold, disinterested observation that I remember making, and I certainly wouldn’t have had time to deliberately fall over backward while swinging Spellbreaker before me, and to listen to the crackling in the air, and notice that particular odor that accompanies thunderstorms, and be simultaneously planning what I was going to say if I were still able to say it, but that’s how I remember it happening, and if my memory is to defy reason, well, I still have to go with my memory, and so there is the smell, the crackle, the roll, and even now the muscle memory of Spellbreaker’s weight in my hand, and the feel of the ground beneath me, and even a small rock that bruised my shoulder as I hit, rolled, and came up, aware that my left arm was numb, and my brain was going tick tick tick as I made deductions and decisions and was able to keep my voice cool and rational as I said, “That was uncalled for, Ori. Do it again and I’ll destroy you. I’m here to talk, not to kill, but if I change my mind I’ll burn you where you stand even if your bodyguards slice me to ribbons in the next instant. Now stop it, and we’ll talk.”
I caught his eye and held it, and for a moment I didn’t even notice the twenty-odd Dragonlords who might or might not be about to cut me down. I waited. Before me stretched gentle, green hills; behind rose the cliff called the Wall, with the plain flat monument to Baritt, his “tomb” standing up before it; and around me were the Eastern Mountains; they all seemed to hold their breath with me. I wondered if I were to die here. It would have been appropriate if I’d had some sort of premonition, but I don’t get premonitions, at least, not reliable ones. In any case, I’d had no premonition when I had first reached the Eastern Mountains.
At their feet, I had learned when we first reached them, long miles from where I now stood, the day arrives suddenly. For once I was almost glad to be made to wake up early, because otherwise I should never have seen the red and gold tickling the peak of Mount Drift in the false dawn, with the overcast, very high and thin, looking like a product of the mountain, and the splintered light turning the camp into a giant field of mushrooms and the river into a ribbon of purple.
Forgive me; you know we hardened soldiers are all philosophers, and philosophers are all poets. Well, actually, we hardened soldiers are usually drunks and whoremongers, but philosophy’s a good way to pass the time in between.
I was poetically given latrine duty that day. Rascha explained, apologetically, that there hadn’t been enough “defaulters” to do the job, so lots had been drawn, and my name had come up. But I could breakfast first. I took it philosophically.
I won’t spend a lot of time describing latrine duty, but I can say it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be—a lot of digging, mostly, and, in any case, everyone else was involved in digging more earthworks under the guidance of the engineers, so it wasn’t much more work than what everyone else was doing, just slightly more unpleasant. I did get a laugh out of a few of my comrades by taking a piece of salted kethna, throwing it into the pit I’d just dug, and covering it over. “Just thought I’d cut out the middle part,” I explained.
But I learned one thing of real value that impressed itself upon my consciousness even more than it had during the march, which is when I first began to suspect it: A Dragonlord squatting over a field toilet looks no more dignified than anyone else in that position. That is knowledge I am happy to carry with me.
We held the position on the riverbank for three days, three relatively pleasant days, in fact. It was hot, but we didn’t have anything to do except relax or bathe in the river, and, best of all, no one tried to kill us. I had thought we were waiting there with the expectation of being attacked, but I learned later that, in fact, what we were doing was letting the other divisions move into position for a three-pronged attack on the heart of Fornia’s realm. Fornia, of course, was busy with marches and countermarches to defend against exactly this. We heard rumors of skirmishes on our flanks, and they turned out to be true, but they were only minor, unimportant little probes of our defenses—unimportant, that is, except to whoever was killed or maimed in the actions. Since the fatalities were all in other companies, we didn’t have funeral services for them.
Most of our time was spent sitting around gabbing—or, in the case of Napper and me, complaining. Most of the conversation was pretty low on the scale: sex and liquor, with drugs and food coming second. The rest of the conversation was at a considerably higher level—there was very little middle ground. Philosophizing, as I mentioned before, is a highly respected activity. At one point I said to Virt, “The trouble with you Dragonlords is that to you killing is so impersonal.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what I’d expect to hear from a Jhereg.”
“How so?”
“I’d thought some of your associates were in the habit of having people killed for business reasons.”
“Sure,” I said. “But one at a time.”
“I imagine that’s an important distinction to whoever gets it.”
“Well, no; but it matters a great
deal to everyone else in the neighborhood.”
“Maybe to the House of the Dragon,” she said, “the means must be broader because the ends are more sweeping.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’re not fighting for control of this-or-that brothel, but for this-or-that barony. While that may not be better, it is certainly bigger, so there would naturally be bigger forces involved.”
“You think that accounts for it?”
“It is, at least, the most widely accepted theory, and I believe it.”
“Uh … ‘the most widely accepted …’ There are theories about this?”
“Oh, certainly. There are theories about every aspect of war.”
“I see. And are they useful?”
“Some more so than others. But the ones that aren’t useful are usually entertaining.”
“I see. I hadn’t thought of ‘entertaining’ as having much to do with war.”
“No, you wouldn’t have. And the idea that it might be probably disgusts you.” I didn’t say anything. After a moment she said, “Haven’t you ever been in mortal danger and discovered after it was over that you’d been having the time of your life? Haven’t you ever taken pleasure in making detailed plans, pleasure that had nothing to do with how good, or bad, or important, the end result was? Can’t you imagine the pleasure in setting up a complex problem and watching the pieces line themselves up, and all the forces come together, and having things work out the way you wanted them to?”
This, of course, set me thinking of Assassinations I Have Known. I said, “Yes.”
“Well?”
“Yes, but.”
She nodded. “Go on.” It occurred to me suddenly that she was enjoying the conversation. Then I realized that I was, too. Was this significant of something?
I let my mind run and my eyes wander; she waited patiently. I said, “Well, maybe it’s just numbers. But it seems that the more lives are being lost, the more important the cause ought to be. Don’t you think?”
“‘Ought’ is a tricky word. So is ‘important.’”
“I can’t deny what you say about danger. Yes, certainly, even though I try to avoid putting myself in danger, I know what you mean about the feeling of, well …”
“Of being fully alive?” she said.
“Yes, that’s it. But that’s me, and maybe even the guy I’m facing, if he’s another volunteer. But what about those conscripts you’ve mentioned?”
“They’re Teckla,” she said.
“True,” I admitted. “Okay, back to ‘ought’ and ‘important,’ then—”
She laughed suddenly. “You’d make a good tactician. I don’t know about strategist, but certainly a tactician.”
“I don’t think I want to know why,” I said.
“All right, then. Back to ‘ought’ and ‘important.’ They’re moral judgments, aren’t they?”
“Is that illegal in this dominion?”
“Not at all. But, traditionally, they’re considered too important to be trusted to foot soldiers.”
“Ah, tradition,” I said. “Well, do you believe that?”
“Of course not,” she said. “At least, no one can help thinking about the why’s of what we’re fighting for. And it does no harm, as long as you don’t think about it just when someone is trying to skewer you.”
“Well then,” I said. “Let’s get down to specifics. Fornia is as power-hungry as—well, he’s power-hungry.” I’d been about to say “as Dragons always are,” but caught myself. “So is Morrolan. Their lands are next to each other, and Morrolan wants to make sure Fornia isn’t able to threaten him, and, of course, Fornia doesn’t want his lands invaded, so they make up a pretext of insult, and a few tens of thousand of us start hacking at each other. How do we fit that into ‘ought’ and ‘important’?”
“You’re here for much the same reason, aren’t you? Fornia offended you, so you’re going to kill a few perfect strangers?”
“I’m one man. I’m not commanding an army to do my killing for me.”
“You think Morrolan should challenge him to a duel?”
“No, I think Morrolan should kill him.”
“How? Assassination?”
“Why not? Anyone can be assassinated.”
“So I’ve heard,” she said dryly. I expected her to start in on the cant about how horrid it was to assassinate an enemy compared to honorable battle, and I was all set with a tirade about the death of one versus the death of hundreds or thousands, but she didn’t go there. She said, “And, if he succeeded, what would then happen? Do you imagine Fornia has no friends, no family, none who would take offense?”
“If no one knew—”
“Is that how it usually works, my dear Jhereg? When someone is killed in your House, is it not usually known who benefits from his death?”
I didn’t have a good answer; she was right. In the Jhereg, you usually wanted it known who had the guy shined; that way it served as a warning to the next guy who might think about committing whatever offense had put a polish on the victim.
“All right,” I said. “I concede the point. Assassination would be impractical in cases like this.”
“Well, then?”
I grinned. “There’s always negotiation.”
“Certainly,” she said. “As long as you can threaten war, you’ll always be able to negotiate.”
“I was kidding.”
“I know. I was being serious.”
“You’d make a good enforcer. I might not want to give you your own territory, but I’d certainly hire you to collect debts.”
For an instant she looked annoyed, then she gave me a smile and said, “All right. Well taken.”
“Who is that?” I said, gesturing with my eyes.
“Who? Oh. His name is Dortmond. I’m not sure what line he is of. He’s been in the company for most of two hundred years. He certainly knows how to campaign, doesn’t he?”
“Except that he has to carry it all.”
“He’s big enough. It all collapses, and I believe he’s been known to bribe the wagoners to bring some of his excess along.”
The man in question was a couple of tents down from us. He was, indeed, a very large man, of middle years, with long hair and good features for a Dragon. He had his cap pulled down over his eyes and was sitting in front of his tent on what seemed to be a canvas-and-wood chair, complete with back. His feet were on a small footstool of similar construction, and by his elbow was a table, on which sat a wine bottle; a goblet was in his hand, and he was smoking a large black pipe. I watched him for a moment. The complete soldier, all his spare energy devoted to wresting luxury from the tedium of camp life.
“You should see the inside of his tent,” said Virt.
“Oh?”
“Double-sized cot with extra padding, pillows, and bug netting. He’s painted the bug netting, too; it shows a mountain scene with a wolf howling.”
“That is a lot to carry.”
“The cot is awfully comfortable, though.”
“How—never mind.”
Virt didn’t answer the question I’d almost asked, but silently watched him along with me. He probably expected to serve as a foot soldier all his life, perhaps someday reaching the rank of corporal. He gave the impression of perfect contentment with his lot. Virt seemed to share my thoughts; eventually she said, “There are worse lives than that of the soldier, you know.”
“Evidently,” I said. “But you’ll never be content with it.”
“Me? Oh, no. If I’m killed in battle, it’ll be on the way up the ranks.”
“And what about Napper?”
“Him? You know, I think he’s every bit as contented with his life as Dortmond.”
“What about her?” I asked, gesturing toward a slim lady who had just walked up to Dortmond. “She looks, oh, I don’t know. Peaceful. Nice. Friendly. Something like that.”
“Neera e’Lanya. She is. As sweet a girl as you’d ever meet. She’s the peacemake
r whenever two people in the squad start getting on each other’s nerves.”
“And now you’re going to say that, in battle, she turns into a berserker, right? Dragon rage, spitting, killing with her bare hands?”
“You got it.”
“She’s really like that?”
“She really is.”
“Dragons are weird,” I said.
After the evening meal, such as it was, I was called to the Captain’s tent once more, and once more the Captain seemed a bit nervous, and once more Morrolan was there.
“Well, Vlad,” he said. “Are you prepared to strike another blow for freedom?”
“Is that what we’re doing?”
“No, but it sounds better than helping a wealthy and powerful aristocrat maintain his wealth and power.”
“Have you been listening in on my conversations?”
“No, why?”
“Never mind. What do you want me to do?”
“Fornia,” said Morrolan, “likes to send troops into battle with a full belly. It—”
“The dastard,” I said.
“—would be to our advantage, then, if that proved to be impossible.”
“I imagine. You’re expecting them to attack?”
“It seems likely. They’ve brought up a number of units, and ours are still arriving. The longer they wait, the stronger we are. Mill’s brigade should be arriving sometime tomorrow morning between the eighth hour and the ninth; if they’re here before the action begins, we should be able to mount a nice counterattack.”
I nodded and didn’t express my thought about how “nice” a counterattack was likely to be. I said, “All right. Yeah, I’ll interfere with their breakfast. You have something specific in mind?”
He did. I laughed, though it wouldn’t be all that funny to the soldiers on the other side. I said, “Won’t that just put them in a bad mood?”
“Yes. No doubt their officers will blame it on us and give them good rousing speeches. But it’ll also disorganize them and delay their attack. And, of course, it won’t help their morale to realize that we can get in and out of their camp any time we like.”