Then she was moving forward, and knew that Norathar was moving as well, and it was an instant later that she was aware that they had arrived.
Barlen’s balls. Five of them.
One of the parts of her mind that had nothing to do with action found the time to be pleased that they were obviously so afraid of him.
But five!
By the time this thought had completed itself, she had already left one of her daggers in one of them: her favorite strike, coming up under the chin, through the throat into the brain. With her left hand, she threw her other dagger in the general direction of a pair of startled eyes.
She pulled a pair of fighting knives from the sheaths behind her back and then rolled as she felt something swing in her direction.
Of course, it does make sense. One for Vlad, one for Loiosh, one for Rocza, and two for backup.
She came easily to her feet and turned to see what was going on; she was aware that Norathar had neatly decapitated one of them. Three left. She didn’t notice unimportant details like their appearance. What mattered was that they were all carrying swords and daggers, none had completely recovered from the surprise of being attacked, and they looked to be hired muscle, rather than assassins; this could be good or bad. If one of those still standing was a sorcerer, things could get very ugly. She sensed the presence of a Morganti weapon, but couldn’t tell who had it.
Norathar was dueling with one of them, so Cawti looked at the other two; one was cautious, the other aggressive. Good.
The aggressive one came at her just like he should. Cawti hesitated, then moved in quickly to throw his timing off, and—left to deflect the sword, right to guard against the dagger, another half step in, and left again. She stepped out quickly before the other one could flank her—the aggressive one dropped his weapons and put his hands over his throat. Futile; he was already dead.
There was a grunt and a cry, and Cawti knew she didn’t have to worry about the one Norathar was fighting; not that she ever had.
The remaining one looked from her to Norathar, sword out, knife ready. If he was frightened—and he almost certainly was—he didn’t let it show.
Norathar worked her way around him; he backed up to the well. Cawti said, “As far as I’m concerned, you can walk away. Can you walk away?”
His eyes flicked between the two of them. “Yes,” he said.
“Go, then,” said Norathar.
He hesitated, then turned his back on them, sheathed his weapons, and walked. Apparently he had the Morganti weapon, as its presence diminished as he left.
Cawti looked around. Three of the enemy were dead, and the other was probably dying.
“He might have recognized me,” said Norathar.
“And if he did?”
“Good point. All right, then. Now what?”
“We’re not done.”
“I know. Back to the Palace, then?”
“We need to find who’s responsible.”
“We could have asked our friend.”
“You’re funny, sister.”
Norathar grinned. Cawti couldn’t remember having seen her grin in years. She grinned back.
“Suggestions?” Norathar asked.
“Know anyone who can do a mind-probe?”
“No one I can ask. You?”
“The Empress.”
“Well, yes. But the consequences?”
“For her, Cawti? You care?”
“For the Empire, and no, but you do.”
Norathar nodded. “She’ll go after the Jhereg with everything she has.”
“They deserve it.”
“Whoever came up with this idea deserves it.”
“And whoever approved it. Think it had to go through the Council?”
“No. I think it had to, but didn’t. I can’t see the Council approving something like this.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Cawti. “So the question is, is it our responsib—we’re attracting attention.”
“I’ll bring us back to the Palace.”
Cawti took a deep breath, then nodded. “Go ahead.”
Then the churning, the twisting, the flopping around; and once more she knelt with her eyes closed, waiting for it to pass.
“Ugh,” she said.
“You’d think there’d be a way to prevent those effects,” said Norathar.
“There is; I just haven’t gotten around to it. I haven’t needed to teleport in years.” She stood up. “I’m all right now.”
Norathar shook her head. “Five of them. Can you believe it?”
“We did all right.”
“Yes, we—you’re bleeding!”
“Am I? Where? Oh. Just a scratch. I can’t think of how it happened.”
“Here, wrap this around it. I’ll tie it.”
“It’s really nothing.”
“The longer you wait, the more blood you’ll have to get out of that blouse.”
“All right.”
“Too tight?”
“No, it’s fine. Thanks.”
“I should have learned a few healing spells.”
“We’re attracting attention again.”
“I suppose it comes with being in Jhereg outfits outside the Imperial Wing, and one of us being an Easterner and bleeding, and the other waving around a big honking sword.”
Norathar sheathed her weapon. “Other than that, why would we be attracting attention?”
“Let’s leave off exchanging witticisms until we’re somewhere more private.”
“Back to my rooms?”
“Maybe.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m wondering if you know a Jhereg from the old days, someone who owes you a favor.”
“Enough of a favor to finger whoever tried to shine Vlad? No.”
“How about someone you can threaten?”
“The only one we could threaten is the guy who did it.”
“Or,” said Cawti, “whoever paid for it.”
“What could we threaten him with? Even if we knew, we couldn’t prove it.”
“We don’t have to prove it, sister. It’s enough if the Empire believes it.”
“Oh,” said Norathar. Then, “Not bad.”
“Can you find out who paid for it?”
“I can get enough information to make a good guess.”
“So, where to?”
“Nowhere. Right here. Let them look. I just need to ask a few people.”
Cawti nodded to a bench a few feet away. “I’m going to sit down. I haven’t enjoyed standing as much as I did before the Boulder.”
“You don’t still call him that, do you?”
“I haven’t. But if he keeps growing so fast and still wants to be picked up, I’ll start to again.”
Cawti went to the bench and sat and watched as Norathar closed her eyes. She kept them closed for some time; occasionally her lips moved a little. Cawti could imagine what was going on—old acquaintances, some of them almost friends. Yes. Surprise, greetings, caution, evasions … “I’m going to be Empress someday. How much is it worth to you to have the Empress owe you a favor?” Maybe not quite so direct; but then again, Norathar wasn’t big on subtlety, was she? There would be hesitation, and finally, maybe, a few pieces of information swimming in a sea of qualifiers like the bits of bread in a prisoner’s broth. She remembered prisoner’s broth. The memory wasn’t pleasant. She missed Vlad’s cooking, too, sometimes. As well as his nasty wit, and—no, no point in that.
Norathar walked up to her. “Two names. I don’t know either of them, but my sources tell me it’s probably one or the other. One is Rynend, who was given the job by the Council. The other is Shribal, who’s been heard to make remarks about wanting to pull it off.”
“I haven’t heard of them either.”
“Where should we start?”
“Rynend, I think.”
Norathar nodded. “We have more leverage if it ties directly to the Council.”
“Exac
tly. Where do we find him?”
“He works out of his home. On Greenway, in the Parapet.”
“Of course,” said Cawti. “What’s the best way to play this?”
Norathar frowned, then said, “I think the best bet is just me. If I don’t get anything, we’ll both take on Shribal.”
“This is a comfortable bench,” said Cawti. “I’ll wait here.”
Norathar nodded, concentrated, and vanished with a quiet pop of displaced air.
CHAPTER FOUR
TWO DAYS EARLIER, DATHAANI
The Jhereg spoke slowly, his voice as melodic as he could make it, which wasn’t very: And it so happened that Barlen called together the Gods that dwelt in the Halls of Judgment, and said, Our enemy will attack us anew. We must prepare ourselves. And so each of the Gods, in his own way, spoke of the preparations he would make, whether in arms, or magic, or strength of body. But then Mafenyi, the artificer, said, I will make me a mighty device, that in the hands of one who touches the powers, will close whatever door our enemy may open to our world.
Barlen spoke high praise for Mafenyi, and the others of the Gods did as well, and so Mafenyi went forth, built the device, casting it into the form of a tiassa, all of silver, small enough to fit into the hand, yet endowed with power to close the world against the enemy.
And when it was complete, Mafenyi sent it forth into the world, knowing it would be found when it was needed.
It wasn’t about the money. Not really. To be sure, it never would have occurred to him to work for free, and the size of the payoff in this case pleased him immensely; but at heart, he wasn’t motivated by money.
It was the job itself—the pleasure of arranging each detail, and then watching it all come together. He wondered if he had been a Yendi in some previous life. He’d had the thought before, and, the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was.
“Dathaani?”
He glanced up. “Oh, sorry; I was musing.”
His guest said, “You stopped in the middle of the story.”
Dathaani’s guest was a young gentleman named Ched, of the House of the Hawk. Dathaani had invited him over for several reasons. First, Ched, despite his relative youth, had something of a reputation as a collector and popularizer of myths and legends. Second, Ched had a small gambling problem which had turned into a large debt. Third, Ched had expressed a willingness to engage in slight, insignificant dishonesty, provided no law was broken, to see this debt wiped away. Dathaani had bought up the debt, pleasing himself, Ched, and the author of the loan. Everybody won. Dathaani liked it when things worked out that way.
“Actually,” he said, “that’s pretty much it. Do you have it?”
“I have the gist of it. If you want me to be able to repeat it back, I’ll need to hear it again.”
“Presently. First, you need to know what to do with it.”
“All right, I’m listening.”
“There is an Athyra named Kosadr.”
“Funny, that’s the same name as the Court Wizard.”
“What a coincidence. His favorite place to drink is a private club called Shim’s. I’ve bought you a membership.”
“All right. I can do this.”
“Good.”
“Funny, I’ve never come across that story before.”
“If you want to touch it up a bit I’m good with that. Just so long as the key elements come across.”
“The key elements being the silver tiassa, and what it does.”
“Exactly.”
“Actually,” said his guest, “the story isn’t bad.”
“Thanks. Do this, and you owe no one anything.”
“Good.”
“Oh, and I assume I don’t need to tell you to keep your mouth shut about it.”
“No, no need for that at all.”
Dathaani thought he might have detected a slight shudder running through the young Hawklord. If so, all to the good.
Some hours later, he sat in the same place, speaking to another guest; this one wore the gray and black of House Jhereg, and was, as Dathaani couldn’t help but be aware, significantly more female.
“Right. Yes. I require necromancy.”
“That is legal, provided it injures no one, and with a few other exceptions. What effect do you require?”
“The appearance of a gate about to open.”
“The appearance? Not the gate?”
“Not the gate.”
“Why ask me? Any—”
“It needs to appear as if it is the Jenoine.” Then, “Come, Lady Cheoru. If you keep staring at me like that, I’ll start to think you’re ensorceling me.”
“Appear as if the Jenoine are trying to break through?”
“Exactly. And it must be convincing.”
“Are you aware of what will happen if I do that?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “I am very much aware. There are certain devices the Empire uses to monitor such activity. The devices themselves are not guarded against—”
“And are you aware of what will happen to us if we get caught?”
“I don’t believe I’ll be caught. And if I am, you’ll not be implicated, of course.”
“I don’t even know how to set a price for that. I’ll need to think about it.”
“Take as much time as you need.”
“It is not impossible that the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain will interest herself. It’s happened before.”
“That’s as may be.”
Cheoru hesitated. “Have you a location in mind?”
He opened a map and indicated the marked spot.
“That is very close to the city,” she said.
“Yes, it is.”
“Very well, I trust you know your business. One thousand.”
“I assume you’d prefer coin. Send someone by to pick it up.”
“My man’s name is Jessic. I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”
“I’d like two days’ notice.”
“Two days? This is a matter of hours. I can give you two days’ notice whenever you wish.”
“Now then.”
“Very well.”
Dathaani rose and bowed. “A pleasure, Lady Cheoru.”
“Lord Dathaani.”
Once she was gone, he carefully counted two hundred five-imperial coins into four bags of fifty each. As he did so, he discarded a few which showed sufficient wear to reduce their value. When finished, he set the bags aside, and studied his notes, making sure he hadn’t missed anything. He continued until he heard a clap at the door, which he assumed, correctly, to be the messenger for the gold.
When the messenger had left, he put on his cloak, strapped on his sword, checked the dagger in his sleeve and the other in his boot; then he went out. He followed Westwind as it curved and twisted and turned into Spinners. After half a mile, as he came to the Parapet, he turned onto Greenway, with its flowering hedges marking the private homes of the almost wealthy. Number Eighty-eight was a dark green house of three stories, with an artificial stream surrounding a rock garden. To look at it, one might think it the home of an Iorich advocate, or a successful Jhegaala merchant.
Dathaani approached the door and pulled the clapper.
There was little that frightened Dathaani, and, if you’ll accept that being nervous is a different feeling than fright, there was even less that made him nervous. Meeting with Rynend was one of those.
He did his best to hide the nervousness, because it was humiliating; but Rynend could have him killed by just making the suggestion. And Rynend was the sort to do it if he got irritated. It was hard not to keep that in mind while having a conversation.
Rynend didn’t have an office; like most of the higher-ups in the Organization, he operated out of his home. And like most higher-ups in any organization, he liked to make people wait. So Dathaani sat in the parlor and waited.
After ten minutes that felt like an hour, Rynend appeared with a bodyguard—a burly fellow who looked like his face h
ad been carved out of the same marble as the floors. Rynend himself was small, elderly, and frail-looking. Dathaani rose and bowed; Rynend gestured that he should sit again, then sat down facing him.
Rynend looked at the bodyguard, who walked to the far end of the room; far enough that he was effectively out of earshot. Then the boss said, “Dathaani, you have something, or not?”
“I have something, my lord.”
“Yeah? Is it good? Will it finish this business, or let me down?”
“I like the chances.”
“You like the chances. Well, I don’t like chances, I like sure things.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“So, do we have a sure thing?”
“No, my lord.”
“No. See, that’s not the answer I wanted. I wanted you to say, ‘This Easterner will no longer pollute the world with his miserable, unclean presence.’”
“I understand, my lord. But, I don’t know, it seems like it might be a bad idea to lie to you. To tell you something is certain when it isn’t.”
“You think that’s a bad idea?”
“I do.”
“You’re right. You don’t want to tell me something that isn’t true, because then I’ll be sad, and you don’t want me to be sad.”
“I understand, my l—”
“But if this worthless crumb gets away, then I’ll be sad, too.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“So tell me what you need.”
“Blades to do the finalizing, a sor—”
“What about you?”
“I do the set-up, my lord. I’m not such a reliable hand with a blade. Also, with enough effort, this can lead back to me. That could be bad for all of us, so I need to make it hard for anyone to find me. Put me near the body, that’s more connection than we want.”
“The body. I like the sound of that.”