A candle flickered and shadows danced.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s back up a little. If you want this staff so badly, why don’t you and the Lord Morrolan here just blast into his keep and take it?”
“We’d like to,” said Morrolan.
Sethra Lavode nodded. “One doesn’t just ‘blast into’ the keep of an Athyra wizard. Perhaps if I were able to leave—but never mind.”
I said, “Okay, fine. But look: I don’t know what you know about me or what you think you know about me, but I’m not a thief. I don’t know anything about breaking into places and stealing things. I don’t know what made you think I could do it in the first place—”
“We know a great deal about you,” said the Enchantress.
I licked my lips. “All right, then you know I’m not—”
“Close enough,” said Morrolan.
“The point is,” said Sethra Lavode before I could respond, “the particular nature of Loraan’s alarm system.”
“Ummmm, all right,” I said. “Tell me about it.”
“He has spells over the entire keep that keep track of every human being in the place, so any intruder, no matter how good, will be instantly detected. Neither Morrolan nor I have the skill to disable these alarms.”
I laughed shortly. “And you think I do?”
“You weren’t listening,” said Morrolan. “His spells detect human beings—not Easterners.”
“Oh,” I said. Then, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” said Sethra. “And we also know that he has sufficient confidence in these alarms that he has little else that could detect you.”
I said, “Do you know what the place looks like on the inside?”
“No. But I’m sure you have the resources—”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Sethra continued. “Morrolan will be ready to aid you once you are inside.”
A voice inside my head pointed out that Sethra appeared to be assuming I was going to do this crazy thing, and that she might be irritated when she learned I wanted no part of it. But I was curious; perhaps fascinated would be a better word.
Morrolan said, “Well?”
I said, “Well what?”
“Will you do it?”
I shook my head. “Sorry. I’m not a thief. As I said, I’d just bungle it.”
“You could manage,” said Morrolan.
“Sure.”
“You are an Easterner.”
I paused to look over my body, feet, and hands. “No. Really? Gosh.”
Sethra Lavode said, “The individual whose soul lives in that staff is a friend of ours.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “But it doesn’t—”
“Seven thousand gold imperials,” she said.
“Oh,” I said after a moment. “A good friend of yours, eh?”
Her smile met my own.
“In advance,” I said.
* * * *
My grandfather is religious, though he never pressed the issue. My father rejected the Eastern gods as he rejected everything else Eastern. Naturally, then, I spent a great deal of time asking my grandfather about the Eastern gods.
“But Noish-pa, some Dragaerans also worship Verra.”
“Don’t call her that, Vladimir. She should be called the Demon Goddess.”
“Why?”
“If you speak her name, she may become offended.”
“She doesn’t get angry at the Dragaerans.”
“We aren’t elfs. They don’t worship as we do. Many of them know of her, but think she is only a person with skills and power. They do not understand the concept of a goddess the way we do.”
“What if they’re right and we’re wrong?”
“Vladimir, it isn’t a right and a wrong. It is a difference between those of our blood and those of the blood of Faerie—and those of the blood of gods.”
I thought about that, but couldn’t make it make sense. I said, “But what is she like?”
“She is changeable in her moods, but responds to loyalty. She may protect you when you are in danger.”
“Is she like Barlan?”
“No, Barlan is her opposite in all ways.”
“But they are lovers.”
“Who told you that?”
“Some Dragaerans.”
“Well, perhaps it is true, but it is not my concern or yours.”
“Why do you worship Ver—the Demon Goddess and not Barlan?”
“Because she is the patron of our land.”
“Is it true that she likes blood sacrifice? The Dragaerans told me that.”
He didn’t answer for a moment, then he said, “There are other ways to worship her and to attract her attention. In our family, we do not commit blood sacrifice. Do you understand this?”
“Yes, Noish-pa.”
“You will never sacrifice a soul to her, or to any other god.”
“All right, Noish-pa. I promise.”
“You swear on this, on your powers as a witch and on your blood as my grandson?”
“Yes, Noish-pa. I swear.”
“Good, Vladimir.”
“But why?”
He shook his head. “Someday you will understand.”
That was one of the few things about which my grandfather was wrong; I never have understood.
* * * *
The teleport back to my office was no more fun than any of the others. It was early evening, and the shereba game in the room between the fake storefront and real office was in full swing. Melestav had left, so I thought the office was empty until I noticed Kragar sitting behind Melestav’s desk. Loiosh flew onto my shoulder and rubbed his head against my ear.
“You okay, boss?”
“Well ...”
“What is it?”
“It’s hard to explain, Loiosh. Want to become a thief? “
“How’d it go, Vlad?”
“The good news is that no one hurt me.”
“And?”
“And Sethra Lavode is certainly real.”
He stared at me but said nothing.
“Well, what happened, boss?”
“I’ll get to it, Loiosh.”
“Kragar,” I said, “this is going to get complicated.” I paused and considered. “All right, sit back and relax; I’ll tell you about it.”
* * * *
It would be nice if I could identify the point when I stopped fearing Dragaerans and started fighting back, but I can’t. It certainly was before my father died, and that happened when I was fourteen. He’d been wasting away for quite a while, so it was no surprise, and, in fact, it didn’t really bother me. He’d picked up some sort of disease and wouldn’t let my grandfather perform the cures, because that was witchcraft and he wanted to be Dragaeran. He’d bought a title in the Jhereg, hadn’t he?
Crap.
Anyway, I can’t really pinpoint when I started hating Dragaerans more than I feared them, but I do remember one time—I think I was twelve or thirteen—when I was walking around with a lepip concealed in my pants. Lepip? It’s a hard stick or piece of metal covered with leather. The leather keeps it from cutting; it’s for those occasions when you don’t want to leave scars, you just want to hurt someone. I could have used a rapier effectively, but my grandfather insisted that I not carry it. He said it was asking for trouble, and that drawing it would signal a fight to the death when otherwise someone would only be hurt. He seemed to feel that life should never be taken unless necessary, not even that of an animal.
In any case, I remember that on this occasion I deliberately walked through some areas where toughs of the House of the Orca liked to hang out, and yeah, they started harassing me, and, yeah, I creamed them. I think they just didn’t expect an Easterner to fight back, and a heavy stick can make a big difference in a fight.
But that wasn’t the first time, so I don’t know. What’s the difference, anyway?
* * * *
I leaned back in my chair and said, “Kragar, I have an
other research project for you.”
He rolled his eyes skyward. “Great. Now what?”
“There is a wizard named Loraan, of the House of the Athyra.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Get busy then. I need a complete drawing of his keep, including a floor plan, and a guess as to where he’d do his work.”
“Floor plan? Of an Athyra wizard’s keep? How am I supposed to get that?”
“You never let me in on your methods, Kragar; how should I know?”
“Vlad, why is it that whenever you get greedy, I have to risk my hide?”
“Because, in this case, you get ten percent.”
“Of what?”
“Lots and lots.”
“Say, that’s even more than ‘quite a bit,’ isn’t it?”
“Don’t be flippant.”
“Who, me? Okay, when do you want it? And if you say ‘yesterday,’ I’ll—”
“Yesterday.”
“—have to hurry. Spending limit?”
“None.”
“I thought it might be one of those. I’ll get back to you.”
* * * *
I don’t really know when I killed a Dragaeran for the first time. When I’d fight them I was pretty casual about where and how hard I’d hit them, and I know that, more than once, there would be one or two of them stretched out on the ground when we were done. Thinking back on times I’d crack them on the top of the head with my lepip, I’d be surprised if none of them died. But I never found out for sure.
Every once in a while that bothers me. I mean, there’s something frightening, in retrospect, in not knowing whether you killed someone. I think of some of those fights, and I remember most of them quite clearly, and I wonder where those people are today, if anywhere. I don’t spend a lot of time wondering, though. What the hell.
The first time I knew that I had killed someone was when I was thirteen years old.
* * * *
There is an interesting story in how Kragar managed to get the information I wanted, but I’ll leave it to him to tell. He has peculiar friends. In the two days it took, I finished closing a deal on a gambling operation I’d been hungry for, convinced someone who owed money to a friend of mine that paying it was the gentlemanly thing to do, and turned down a lucrative proposal that would have taken three weeks and a Morganti dagger.
I hate Morganti weapons.
When Kragar returned with the drawings we spent a whole day going over them and coming up with stupid ideas. We were flatly unable to think up an intelligent one. We put the whole thing off for a day and tried again with the same results. Finally Kragar said, “Look, boss, the idea of breaking into an Athyra’s keep is stupid. Naturally, any idea for how to do it is also going to be stupid.”
I said, “Ummm, yeah.”
“So just close your eyes and pick one.”
“Right,” I said.
And that’s pretty much what I did.
We spent a few hours polishing it down to the point of least possible idiocy. When Kragar went off to make some of the arrangements, I closed my eyes and thought about Sethra Lavode. I called up a picture of her face, tried to “hear” her voice, and sent my mind out, questing. Sethra Lavode? Where are you, Sethra? Hello? Vlad, here ...
Contact came remarkably easily.
She said, “Who is it?”
“Vlad Taltos.”
“Ah. What do you want?”
“I have a plan for getting in. I need to make arrangements with you and Morrolan for timing and backup and stuff like that.”
“Very well,” she said.
It took about an hour, at the end of which I was no more confident than I’d been before speaking with her. But there you are. Orders went out, arrangements were made, and I reviewed my will. The stuff of life.
Chapter 5
I felt very close to Loiosh, in tune with him. I discovered I was sitting cross-legged before the sorcery rune I’d drawn. I still had no idea why I’d drawn it in the first place, but it felt right.
It was quiet here. The wind, though almost still, whispered secret thoughts in my ear. I could clearly hear the rustle of fabric as Loiosh shifted slightly on my shoulder.
I began to feel something then—a rhythmic pulsing, disconcerting in that I was feeling it, not hearing it. I tried to identify its source, and could only conclude that it was coming from within me.
Strange.
I could try to ignore it, or I could try to understand it, or I could try to incorporate it. I opted for the latter and began to concentrate on it. A Dragaeran would have been impatient with its simplicity, but to me it was a rather attractive rhythm, soothing. My grandfather had told me that drums were often used in spells, back in his homeland. I could believe that. I allowed myself to fall into it, waiting until my skin seemed to vibrate in sympathy.
Then I reached out my right hand, slowly, gently, toward the herbs and charms I’d laid out on that side. My hand touched something and I picked it up, brought it before my eyes without moving my head. It was a sprig of parsley. I set that in the center of the rune. I repeated the process with my left hand, and it brought back a clod of dirt from the Eastern home of my ancestors.
The dirt would reinforce arrival and safety; I had no idea what the parsley could represent in this context. I broke the dirt over the parsley. Behind the rune I placed a single white candle, which I also retrieved without looking. I kindled it, gently, with flint and a scrap of paper. A single candle burns brightly when it is the only source of light save the faint glow from the night sky.
It was then that I noticed the horizon before me, which had begun to flicker and waver, dancing, it seemed, in time to the pulsing of nonexistent drums. I decided not to let this disturb me unduly.
I contemplated my next action, waiting.
The very wealthy man drove his wagon up the hill toward the keep. This keep was actually a single, reddish stone structure, half of it underground, the other half in the form of a single tower.
It is a common misconception that those in the House of the Athyra have no doors into or out of their homes—the idea being that if one doesn’t know how to teleport, one doesn’t belong there. This is almost true, except that they don’t require their servants to know how to teleport. There is almost always a door or two for deliveries of those goods the wizards and sorcerers of the keep consider too demeaning to fetch for themselves. Trivial things such as food, drink, and assassins. These items are delivered by wagons to a special receiving area in the rear, where they are received, each in its own way.
Of course, the assassins aren’t usually expected and, one hopes, not noticed. Theirs is a sad lot, to be sure, with no servant within who knows to announce them. Nor, in fact, are they able to announce themselves, being hidden in a cask marked “Greenhills Wine, ’637.”
They are most certainly not going to be announced by the very wealthy and equally terrified Teckla who delivers them and who, presumably, wishes to live to enjoy his newly acquired wealth.
No one was around to witness the various indignities I suffered during the unloading and storing process, so I shall refrain from mentioning them. It is sufficient to say that by the time I was able to break out of the stupid cask I was, fortunately, neither drunk nor drunk, if you take my meaning.
So ... out. Stretch. Check my weapons. Stretch again. Look around. Do not make any rustling noises by getting out the floor plan, because you have it memorized. You do have it memorized, don’t you? Think now—this is either that room or that room. Either way, the door lets out into a hall that leads ... don’t tell me now ... oh, yes. Good. Shit. What, by all the gods of your ancestors, are you doing here, anyway?
Oh, yeah: money. Crap.
“You okay, boss?”
“I’ll live, Loiosh. You?”
“I think I’ll live.”
“Good.”
First step is getting the door open. Loraan may not be able to detect it when someone uses witchcraft within his
keep, but I’m not going to bet my life on it; at least not unless I have to.
So I pulled a vial of oil from within my cloak, opened it, smeared its contents on the hinges, and tested the door. No, it wasn’t locked, and yes, it opened silently. I put the oil away, sealing it carefully. Kiera had taught me that. This, you understand, is how assassins are able to sneak around so quietly: we cheat.
There was no light in the hall, and there shouldn’t be any random boxes, either, according to Kragar’s source. My favorite kind of door (an unlocked one) guarded the room where I chose to spend the remaining hours until the early morning hour I had selected. More oil, and I was inside. There was about a ten-to-one chance against anyone disturbing me in this room. If anyone did, Loiosh would wake me up and I’d kill the intruder. No sweat. Assuming no trouble, Loiosh would keep track of time for me and wake me at the right hour. I spread out my cloak, closed my eyes, and rested. Eventually I slept.
* * * *
The city of Adrilankha is most of CountyWhitecrest, which is a thin strip of land along the southern seacoast. The name “Adrilankha” means “bird of prey” in the secret language of the House of the Orca, which no one speaks anymore. The story is that the mariners who first sighted the area along the red cliffs thought it looked like such a bird, with bright red wings held high, head down at the sea level where the Sunset River cut through the land.
The low area around the river is where the docks were built, and the city grew up from it, until now most of the city is high above the docks and a long way inland. The two “wings” of the bird don’t look much like wings anymore, since the northern wing, called Kieron’s Watch, collapsed into the sea a few hundred years ago.
The southern wing has many good places from which to watch the waves crashing, and ships coming and going, and like that. I remember sitting there doing that sort of watching and not thinking about anything in particular when a Dragaeran—an Orca and probably a seaman—came staggering up next to me.
I turned and looked him over and decided he was drunk. He was pretty old, I think. At least, his face had turned into a prune, which doesn’t usually happen to Orcas until they’re at least a couple thousand years old.