Dragon (Vlad Taltos) (10 page)

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Authors: Steven Brust

BOOK: Dragon (Vlad Taltos)
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WHAT WAS THE QUESTION?
Loiosh said,
“No one’s noticed you, yet.”
“Good.”
I trotted to the top of the hill and took a good look around. The field on which my messmates were fighting was behind me, and farther behind me was the Wall; a long way off to my right was a match of cavalry against cavalry, and to my left was a company of bad guys marching at quicktime. They might be reinforcements coming to attack my own unit; I couldn’t tell yet, and didn’t want to wait around to find out. Ahead of me, about two hundred yards away, was a slightly higher hill, and on it was a body of soldiers, I guessed around twenty or thirty, standing alert and, I was fairly certain, protecting the sorcerers, in the center of whom would likely be what I was after.
“Okay, Loiosh. Forward at a march.”
“You march, Boss. Ill just sort of hang around.”
“Or you could fly overhead and let me know if you see Ori in that group.”
“Whatever you say, Boss.”
He left my shoulder. I headed toward the hill, wishing I had some sort of plan. But, after all, there were only twenty or thirty of them; what was there to worry about?
I’d covered about a hundred and fifty yards when Loiosh said,
“They’ve noticed you, Boss.”
“Great.”
I kept moving, because stopping would have been worse, although
I didn’t enjoy it. I was, not to put too fine a point on it, terrified. My brain was working hard trying to come up with what to say, what to do that would not only leave me alive but let me finish what I set out to do, but each step took an effort, as if my feet had their own idea and wanted me to stop and reconsider the whole idea of forward motion.
I’d had the same reaction, now that I thought about it, to stepping through Morrolan’s window; I hadn’t wanted to go, but I did. And both times, in a way, I was driven by the same thing: the desire not to look craven in front of a Dragon. Why should I care? There’s another mystery.
I knew, as I stepped through that window, that if I looked around there would be no window behind me, but I had to look anyway. No, there was no window; there was, instead, a breathtaking view of three mountain peaks, laid out as if they had been built just for how they looked from where I stood. Two of them were capped with snow, stretching out before me, too far away to pick out details. There was a purple sheen to them, and it took a moment to realize I was looking
down
on them. Then I noticed the sharpness of the air, and the fresh tang. I pulled my cloak closer around me.
“Let’s go, Vlad.”
“I’m admiring nature,” I said, but I turned and followed him up the path.
I bent my head as we entered the cave—I suppose from some odd instinct, because it was large enough for Morrolan to enter unbowed, which he did.
The light failed quickly; after ten paces I could no longer see. Morrolan and I stopped and he made a light spell that caused a radiance to shine out from his hand, not too strong to look at but very bright wherever he pointed. We continued. The cave became narrower and the ceiling lower. “Watch your head,” he suggested.
“Notice anything odd, Boss?”
“No, Loiosh, it seems just like every other time I used a necromantic
window to step through onto the top of a mountain and walk into a dark cave to meet someone of a half-legendary magical race. What are you talking about?”
“What do you smell?”
“Ah. Okay, point. I owe you a fish head.”
What I smelled was brimstone. What it meant I couldn’t say, but I doubted it was a natural smell in that cave, at least as strong as it was. I glanced at Morrolan, walking steadily and emitting light from his hand. I could read nothing from his expression.
About fifty paces in from the mouth, the cave abruptly ended in a natural-looking wall that could not have been natural. Morrolan stood there, frowning at it, and I said, “What now?”
“I am uncertain of the custom,” he said. “Whether we should wait or—”
There was a rattling sound, as of pebbles rolling on metal, followed by a low rumble, and a portion of the wall before us gave back, showing a narrow stone stairway heading downward.
“I think waiting is appropriate,” I said.
He began going down the stairs.
There were only twenty steps, and those shallow, until they reached another stone doorway, this one standing open, and we continued, walking on flagstones that echoed sharply. The hall was narrow and the ceiling low; I took a certain pleasure in seeing Morrolan walk with his head bowed. The smell of brimstone grew even stronger.
“I wonder what’s for dinner?”
said Loiosh.
The hall ended without ceremony, leaving us in a nearly circular cavern about forty feet in diameter. The walls were rough and cave-like, the floor polished smooth, and the ceiling just high enough for Morrolan to stand straight. There was no furniture of any kind. A short person stood at the far end, looking at us with what would have been an expression of curiosity in a human or a Dragaeran. We approached until we were about six feet away, and then stopped. The being was skinny and ugly,
wore what appeared to be blue and red silks in the form of layers of scarves, and as far as I could see, had no hair whatsoever.
He—I thought he looked like a he—gave no courtesy, but spoke abruptly, in a pleasant, flutey voice. His accents fell in odd, almost random places, and there was a certain clipped quality to his consonants, but there was no difficulty understanding him. He addressed Morrolan with the words, “Greetings, brother. Who are your friends?”
“Did you hear that, Boss? Friends?”
“Shut up, Loiosh.”
“Good day to you,” said Morrolan, adding a sound at the end that was either the last cough from a man with Juiner’s Lung or the name of the Serioli we faced. “His name—your pardon—the Easterner’s name is Vlad Taltos, the Jhereg is called Loiosh.”
“You don’t mention the fourth, because we’ve met already; but why do you leave out the fifth? Because she is not altogether here?”
Morrolan frowned and looked at me. I gave him a helpless shrug. I said, “I take it you two have met before?”
“Once,” said Morrolan. “Far from here, but he told me where to find him.”
There was a story there, but Morrolan wasn’t much given to storytelling, and now wasn’t the time to ask. I studied the Serioli, the only one I’d ever seen, and tried not to look as if I was staring. He wasn’t so polite; he was looking at me, and at Loiosh, as if an odd specimen of vegetation had just occurred in his garden and he wasn’t certain if it were flower or weed.
His complexion was very pale, almost albino, and his face was more wrinkled than my grandfather’s. His hair was thin, wispy, and white, his eyes a pale, watery blue.
Morrolan said, “Who is the fifth?”
“Who indeed,” said the Serioli, nodding sagaciously, as if Morrolan had said something wise.
Morrolan glanced at me again as if wondering if I had any idea what the Serioli was talking about. I shrugged with my eyebrows.
“You don’t understand?” said our host. “How droll. But leave it for now.”
“We’ve brought wine,” said Morrolan, which was news to me. “Would you care for some? It is from the East.”
“Grateful,” said the Serioli. “Shall we sit?”
Morrolan sat himself down on the floor, leaning against the wall, legs stretched out, looking absurd. I sat next to him, but I don’t know how I looked. Our companion walked around a wall that I hadn’t seen was there—it blended into the back of the cave—and emerged with three handsome wooden goblets. Morrolan produced a bottle of wine and glass-cloth from somewhere, broke off the neck with a practiced hand, spread the cloth, and poured. Then he hauled out some sweet biscuits wrapped in cloth and spread those out on the floor. I ate one. It was all right. I wondered if it was the custom among the Serioli for guests to bring the refreshments; I made a mental note to ask Morrolan later, but I forgot.
I watched the Serioli eat and drink. I couldn’t tell for sure if he had any teeth, but I almost became convinced he had no bones in his arms. I thought he looked graceful, Loiosh thought he looked silly. What good these observations did is, of course, a perfectly valid, if inherently rhetorical, question.
“You’ve brought good wine,” said our host after eating and drinking for a few minutes. “And questions, too?”
“Yes,” said Morrolan. “We’ve brought questions, but first there’s the one we didn’t bring, but found waiting for us when we arrived.”
“Yes. You did not know of whom I was asking.” Then he looked at me with his head tilted and his funny little eyes narrowed. “And you, too. Or are there secrets I am giving away?”
“None that I know of,” I said. “Besides, I trust the Lord Morrolan completely as long as he has nothing to do with my business.”
The Serioli made a wheezing sound accompanied by his whole face pinching up; I assumed he was laughing. He spoke in his
own language, a clicking, snapping sound that seemed like one long word full of consonants and digestive trouble; it flowed naturally from his face, as if he ought to speak like that. Morrolan chuckled.
I looked at Morrolan and said, “All of which meant?”
“Three can keep a secret if two are dead.”
I raised my glass to the Serioli, who said to Morrolan, “Let me then answer your question. You may be unaware of it, but by your side, descendent of Dragons, is—?” Here he croaked, coughed, and clicked something in his own language.
“Which means?” I said.
Morrolan answered, “Magical wand for creating death in the form of a black sword.”
“Oh,” I said. “Is that what it is?”
“Close,” said the Serioli. “I should not, however, translate it as ‘creating death.’” He paused, as if wanting to formulate the sentence before embarking on it. “It would be more precise to say ‘removing life-substance.’” He paused again, “Or perhaps ‘sending the life-substance to—’”
“Fine,” said Morrolan.
“Our symbol for life, you see, is expressed in the phrase—”
“If you please,” said Morrolan.
The Serioli looked at him. “Yes?”
“What—or who—is the fifth?”
“The fifth isn’t entirely here. But your friend of the Old People should know.”
“You should know?”
“Old People?”
“How should I know?” I said. “Old people?”
He made a growling noise in which words were hidden. Morrolan searched them out and said, “I’m not sure what that means. ‘People from the invisible lights’?”
“Small invisible lights.”
“Ah,” I said. “Well, if you can’t see them, I don’t suppose it
matters much how big they are.” Then, “But were you speaking of Spellbreaker?”
“Is that what you call it?” He made his laughing sound again.
“What would you call it?”
“Spellbreaker,” he said, “is as good a name as any, for now.”
“You’re saying I’m holding a Great Weapon?”
“No, you are not. Not yet.”
“Not yet,” I repeated. I let Spellbreaker, which I kept coiled around my left wrist, fall into my hand. I studied it. It seemed shorter than it had the last time I looked at it, and the links appeared to be smaller. “Not yet?”
“Someday, there will be a weapon—” He stopped and his lips worked. Then he resumed, “Someday, there will be a weapon called ‘Remover of aspects of deity.’”
I repeated this name and shrugged.
“Godslayer,” said Morrolan.
“If you wish,” said the Serioli.
“What has this to do with my chain?”
“Everything,” said the Serioli. “Or nothing.”
“Do you know, I get tired of people speaking in riddles.”
Our host made his laughing sound again. I wrapped Spellbreaker around my wrist. “Fine,” I said. “How do I find this weapon?”
“
Uh … Boss? Why do you want to?
”
“
I’m not certain I do, but—
”
“To find it, you must first find—” He clicked some more.
I looked at Morrolan. “Artifact in sword form that searches for the true path.” He looked at the Serioli to see if the translation was approved.
“Not far off. But I am uncertain if ‘true path’ would be precisely the way to say it. I might suggest ‘an object of desire when the path is true.’ The form of ‘path’ is made abstract by the final ‘tsu.’”
“I see,” said Morrolan. “Thank you.”
I wondered if Morrolan had any idea what he was talking about. Probably, since he spoke the language. I said, “Would you like to tell me more?”
“The two artifacts were, or are to be, created together—”

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