Dragon

by Steven Brust

  "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 completing 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 Lyom'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."

  "I didn't know there was a navy during the Interregnum."

  "There wasn't, officially, but there was some fighting now and then around Northport and Adrilankha."

  "Okay," I said. "Any idea where I might acquire a backpack?"

  She shook her head. "Not around here, and we're not permitted to leave camp without permission. But I expect that when Aelburr gets back he'll be able to rig some straps for you. He's good at that sort of thing."

  "Aelburr?"

  "He's the other one who bunks with us."

  "Oh. Where is he now?"

  "He drew kitchen duty. He'll be back after lunch."

  "Such as it is," put in Napper.

  Virt added, "You can ask him about making you a stool as well; you'll come to appreciate whatever comfort you can find."

  "I don't doubt that a bit," I said.

  I sat down on the ground next to them. Yeah, a stool would be nice.

  A little later there was the sound of drums, and my heart leapt to my throat, and I almost stood up and drew a weapon; I just barely saved myself from embarrassment by noticing that no one else seemed excited.

  "That little tune," said Virt, "is called 'Graze the Horses.' It means lunchtime."

  "It's our big excitement for the day," said Napper.

  "True enough," said Virt. "Because of the danger. Grab your mess kit and come along."

  Lunch was served up at a long table, which you walked along with your tin tray out so the cooks could put on it a hunk of tasteless cheese, as many biscuits as you could eat … in my case, that was about a third of one, and a piece of salted kethna that I wouldn't have served hidden in a stew full of lasher peppers. Then you filled up your collapsible tin cup with a horrid white wine and walked back to your tent to eat, and then down to the stream to clean your mess kit, and, then, perhaps, downstream to the latrines to divest yourself of what you'd just had the misfortune to consume. I fed Loiosh a bit of the kethna, and he liked it fine, which I think proves my point.

  An hour after lunch were "maneuvers." We were called out and made to stand in a neat line, four abreast. On my left was Napper, next to him was a Dragonlord who turned out to be Aelburr. He was very tall—close to eight feet—and thin even for a Dragonlord. His black hair was brushed back like Virt's, and his arms were nearly as knotted as Crown's. In that formation, they marched us out to a field, where we had to do things like turn around all together, go from four abreast to eight abreast and back, spread out in different directions and come back, go from four abreast facing forward to thirty abreast and four deep, with proper distance between the lines, advance, retreat, quickstep, double-time, and all sorts of other things that everyone knew how to do except me.

  We did this for about five hours, with a five-minute break each hour. During one of the breaks, I threw myself down next to the man who'd been behind me for most of the march.

  "Not used to the work, Easterner?" he said.

  I looked at him, and he didn't seem to be actively unfriendly, so I said, "Can't claim to enjoy it."

  "Me neither," he said. He was a rather small man, almost mousy, and didn't give the impression of great strength, though he'd gone through the drills without being as winded as I was.

  "But you're in it for the fighting, right?"

  "Me? No. I've been in a few battles. I can't say I enjoyed them."

  "Then why—?"

  "Experience. I want to make a career of the Phoenix Guards. Or the Dragon Guards if the Cycle will be kind enough to turn for me. And you get along better if you start out with a few big fights under your belt."

  "I see."

  "What about you?"

  "It's personal."

  He laughed. "I would imagine so. The scuttlebutt is you know Sethra Lavode."

  "We've met," I admitted.

  "Is she really a vampire?"

  "Well, she hasn't drunk my blood. At least that I remember."

  He laughed again. "I'm Tibbs," he said.

  "Vlad."

  "A pleasure."

  "The same."

  And the drum started up, and we were off on more senseless maneuvers. The next rest period found me next to Virt and Napper again. Napper had a look of disgust on his face that didn't encourage conversation. Virt seemed her easygoing self, so I said, "Mind if I ask you a question?"

  "Sure," said Virt.

  "Why is everyone so … hmmm. I'm not sure how to say this. I've dealt with Dragons before, and I'm used to, ah, I'm not used to being treated so civilly by them. No offense."

  Virt smiled. "It's taken some effort," she said.

  "Why the effort, then?"

  "I can only speak for myself."

  "Well?"

  "We're going to war," she said after a moment. "We're going to be fighting. You'll be fighting next to me. I'd just as soon you didn't have any reason to let me be killed."

  "Ah. I hadn't thought of that."

  She smiled pleasantly. "It's probably in your best interest not to give me a reason to let you be killed, either. You may want to keep that in mind, Jhereg."

  Napper looked up at me, then glanced away.

  And again the drum, and again the marching and running, and then, a little later, we broke for practice in throwing javelins. I couldn't get anything like the distance most of the Dragonlords got, but I was awfully damn accurate. That gave me a certain amount of pleasure.

  Then there was
another drumbeat that announced time to sup. Supper was much the same as lunch except that a thin broth was substituted for the kethna. I sat next to Virt outside of our tent, and said, "Does the food get any better?"

  "No."

  "I see." Then, "Are most of these people volunteers?"

  "All of us, of course. The units with conscripts have Teckla in them."

  "Oh. Why did you volunteer?"

  "I'm attending the Terics Academy, and one needs experience in battle before mastering theory."

  "I guess that makes sense."

  "Why you?"

  "Why am I here? It's personal."

  "Ah."

  I decided after a moment that she deserved a better answer than that, so I said, "The guy we're going up against pissed me off."

  "You're kidding."

  "Nope."

  "You joined the army because you're mad at the guy whose army we're fighting?"

  "Yep."

  She stared at me. "You know you probably won't get a chance to, uh, what do you Jhereg call it?"

  "We usually call it killing," I lied. "And, yes, I know that. But I can be useful here."

  "You're nuts."

  "Thanks."

  "But I mean that in the nicest possible way."

  At that point we were joined by Aelburr, to whom I was then introduced. He seemed friendly enough, and agreed to modify my satchel and make me a collapsible stool. I said, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

  "Yeah. Tell me how to win at S'yang Stones."

  "Run the game, don't play it."

  "I'm serious."

  "So am I. It's a rigged game. In the long run, you can't win unless the guy running the game is an idiot. If you're really, really good at it, and you concede if you don't score well on your first couple of throws, and double-up every time you have an edge with your flat stones, and you get very good at tossing, you'll only lose a little, very slowly."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because in, say, a ten-fifty game you're paying twelve orbs for the stones, and you're risking fifty orbs if you lose, and if you win you only get back ten plus fifty, not including doubling, which works out even in the long run. So every time you play against someone as good as you, you lose two orbs. If you play against someone better, it's worse, and if you play against someone not as good, the luck factor is almost always greater than the two orbs you're losing. Usually about four coppers' worth."