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Authors: Steven Brust

BOOK: Dragon (Vlad Taltos)
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“No. Do you?”
“Sure. Well, I know what they say, at least.”
“What do they say?”
“Back before the beginning of the Empire they were invented by a Serioli smith in order to make war so horrible no one would fight anymore.”
I snorted. “You’re kidding. Do you believe they could be that stupid?”
“Oh, but it worked.”
“Huh?”
“Among the Serioli.”
“Oh.”
“Shall we go in?”
“I don’t think I can.”
“That’s a problem.”
“Yes.”
We stood there like idiots for a little longer.
“Should we leave, then?” he asked.
“No, dammit.”
“All right.”
Hours and hours went by. All right, maybe a minute. The worst part was knowing those Dragonlords were right behind me. Showing fear in front of a Jhereg is bad business; showing fear in front of a Dragon hurts my pride.
Kragar said, “I have an idea.”
“Good,” I said. “I accept. An excellent idea. Whatever it is.”
“This will take a couple of minutes.”
“Even better. You think I’m in a hurry?”
Kragar’s brow wrinkled. I suspected psychic contact.
“All right,” he said. “He’ll be here.”
“Who?”
“Someone who can help. I met him some years ago when I was—it doesn’t matter.”
He might as well have completed the sentence. Kragar wasn’t born into the Jhereg—he’d once been a Dragonlord himself—and whatever reasons he had for not being one anymore were his own business.
“What’s his name?”
“Daymar. He’s a Hawklord.”
“All right. How can he help?”
“Psychics”
“What about them?”
“He’s very good. He can do things with the powers of his mind that skilled sorcerers can’t do using the power of the Orb. He—just a minute.” He stepped out of the room for a moment and spoke quietly with the guards. When he returned, there was a thin, sharp-featured Dragaeran with him, all in black, with a sort of dreamy, vague expression on his face that was quite at odds with his features and with other Hawklords I’d known.
“Hello, Kragar,” he said in a low, quiet voice.
“Hello, Daymar. This is my boss, Vlad.”
He bowed politely, which also set him apart from others of his House. “Pleased to meet you,” he said.
“And you,” I told him.
He studied the room. “Very impressive,” he said. “I’ve never seen so many at once.”
“I was thinking much the same thing,” I said.
Kragar said, “Can you, uh, tone them down a little? Vlad is a bit sensitive to their aura.”
He turned to me with a look of curiosity. “Really? That’s interesting. I wonder why?”
I refrained from saying, “Because I’m an Easterner with a superstitious dread of the damned things”; instead I just shrugged.
“Mind if I find out what it is about you that—”
“Yes,” I said.
“All right,” he said, appearing to be a little hurt. Then he looked around the room again. “Well,” he said, “it shouldn’t be difficult,” and, just like that, I felt better. Not good, mind you, but better—it was as if they were still out there, and still hungry, but much farther away.
“How did you do that?” I said.
Daymar frowned and pursed his lips. “Well,” he said, “if we consider the aura emitted by each weapon as a spherical field of uni—”
“Psychics,” said Kragar.
I walked into the room as if there was nothing to it, and began looking around. Kragar and Daymar stayed behind me.
The weapons were a bit more arranged than I’d first thought—they were stacked, rather than just lying around, and they were all in sheaths or scabbards—I tried not to think of how it would feel if they’d been naked. I couldn’t, however, discern exactly what the order or arrangement was.
“The most powerful are at this end,” said Daymar conversationally, “and the weakest are down there. That’s a Jhereg on your shoulder, isn’t it?”
“Psychics,” I said. “And a keen eye for detail as well,” I added.
“Excuse me? Oh, that was irony, wasn’t it?”
“Sorry. I’m a bit jumpy.”
“Oh? Why?”
I glanced at Kragar, who, it appeared, was gallantly attempting not to smile. I left the question hanging and tried to look like I was studying the weapons, while simultaneously not really looking at them. This isn’t easy, and it didn’t work—they kept assaulting my mind, Daymar’s psychic ability notwithstanding.
“How do you link to it?”
“Excuse me?”
“The Jhereg. You must have some sort of psychic link to it. How—”
“Witchcraft,” I said.
“I see. Does it involve—?”
“I don’t care to discuss it.”
“All right,” said Daymar, looking puzzled and maybe a little hurt once more. I wasn’t used to running into Dragaerans who had sensitive feelings.
“So,” said Kragar. “Any ideas on how to go about this?”
I glanced at him again, and he flushed a little—whoever this Daymar was, I wasn’t prepared to discuss my business in front of him, and Kragar ought to have known that.
“What are you trying to do?” said Daymar.
“It’s hard to explain,” I said.
“Oh, well then—” he said, and, as I was still looking at Kragar, I saw a startled look spread over his features.
I said, “What—”
“Mind probe, Boss. A really, really, good one. And fast. That guy—
”
I picked up the weapon closest to me, a dagger, and pulled it from its sheath. I crossed the room, stopping in front of Daymar, about four feet away. I stared up at him, holding the weapon casually in front of me. I was no longer frightened of the thing; it was as if something had taken control of me, and that something was red and burning. I said, “Look, I appreciate your help, but if you ever mind-probe one of my people again, it’ll be the last thing you ever do, in this life or any other. Is that clear?”
He seemed a little startled but not at all frightened. “Sorry,” he said. “I won’t do it again.”
I turned away, took a deep breath, and sheathed the weapon. I never know what to say after I’ve intimidated someone; I ought to keep a list of tough-guy remarks.
“I do have a suggestion, however.”
I turned around and stared at him, not quite sure what I was hearing.
“Boss, either you’re losing your touch or this guy is really stupid.”
“Well,” continued Daymar, “since I know anyway …”
I gave Kragar a “What should I do about this?” look, and he returned a “Don’t ask me” shrug.
I sighed. “All right, Daymar. Let’s hear it.”
“Well, Morrolan thinks someone is going to try to steal these weapons, right? And you—”
“Do you know Morrolan?” I said.
“Certainly. Why?”
“I just wondered. Go on.”
“You want to trap whoever it is.”
“Trap? Maybe. At least find the culprit, if there is one.”
“I can set up a psychic trace that will let us identify anyone who steps in here.”
“Sounds too easy,” I said.
“No one guards against psychics.”
“What about Kiera?”
“Who?”
“Never mind,” I said. “If something is missing and we don’t know how, Kiera took it.”
“Then what?” put in Kragar.
“That’s easy. We give up and report failure, which I should have done already.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“Well?” said Daymar.
“All right,” I said. “Do whatever you have to do.”
“It’s done,” he said.
“I—”
“I believe him, Boss
. Something
happened.”
I graced Kragar with another look. In case I’ve failed to communicate it, I wasn’t entirely comfortable with how things had worked themselves out, and Kragar presented an easy and not unreasonable target; he accepted the role with good grace.
Loiosh said,
“Don’t worry, Boss; it’ll all work perfectly. No, really.”
I turned to Daymar. “How does it work?”
“If any of those weapons are moved from this room, I’ll receive a psychic impression of whoever moved it.”
“Then what?”
“Whatever you want. I can put you in touch with him, or get a location—”
“You can? You can?”
“Why, yes,” he said, looking slightly startled. “Is something amiss?”
I don’t know why I should have thought we’d be done with him. Wishful thinking, I suppose.
“All right,” I said. “I think we can say we’ve done all we have to here. Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” asked Daymar.
I started to answer, bit it off, gave Kragar a pleading look, and made my escape. Whatever Kragar said must have worked; at least Daymar didn’t follow us back to the office.
That day, I was prepared to call even that a victory.
ON STOLEN SWORDS AND BORROWED BOOKS
We had closed a good share of the distance between us before they broke into a run. I’d thought (insofar, that is, as I’d been thinking at all) that they were going to stop, take a defensive position, and wait for our attack, as we’d done when they’d charged us, and on reflection, they probably should have. They had spears, and if they’d just held steady and stuck them out, it would have been ugly for us. But that wasn’t how they played it—they came right at us, maybe hoping we’d back down, turn, and run. Strategically a bad move, psychologically sound. Or, to put it another way, seeing them coming at us scared the shit out of me, a feeling mitigated only by the nasty pleasure of knowing how it felt to charge up a hill.
But there was no way we could stop, you see; the juice-drum was rattling around us, we were already moving, and we’d become a juggernaut, plowing forward, bristling with points, and at a certain stage I stopped feeling fear. I stopped feeling anything. I just went ahead and did it because there was nothing else to do. Even my own mission, my private plans and intentions, went out of my head, and the means became the end: I was advancing because my company was advancing, and when we met them we’d destroy them because that was what we did. It was never
my
job, but for a while, as I said, that didn’t occur to me.
It was all different. I don’t mean this battle in particular, but battle in general. I still wasn’t used to it. Did anyone ever get
used to it? If so, how? Except someone like Napper, and he was nuts.
I’d known battle would be different from assassination, and even different from the street brawls I’d been forced into from time to time, but knowing it and living it are not the same. I’m used to cold, but battle is hot; I’m used to precision, but war is chaos; I’m used to trying to kill, but this kind of fighting involved trying to stay alive.
The sound of footsteps, my own and my comrades’, blended with the juice-drum, then overpowered it and became a rhythm that I picked up in my head to the echo of “Why? Why? Why? Why?” which was far too philosophical for the moment. We hardened soldiers, you see, are philosophical in camp, but very practical in the field. That was something else I learned. In camp, you have to be philosophical, or crazy, or funny, or nasty, or something, just to keep yourself from going out of your head while you’re waiting for another chance to be a hero. It’s a means of passing the time. That is one similarity between Dragons and Jhereg I can’t deny: we know how to wait.
Another is that we don’t like waiting. For my part, if something is going to happen, I’d just as soon that it happened quickly. With that in mind, I suppose you could say I got lucky way back at the beginning of all this, when I tried to carry out Morrolan’s mission: I didn’t have to wait. We heard from Daymar the very morning after we set the psychic trap.
I was just settling into my chair and enjoying the rare pleasure of an empty desk; if there’s something on the desk, it usually means there is something I ought to be doing. I was about to have my secretary bring me some klava when Kragar, whom I had not noticed enter my office, said, “Someone stole one of the weapons, Vlad.”
“Melestav!” I called. “Please bring me some klava.”
“Right away, Boss,” he answered from the next room.
Kragar began again, “Vlad—”
“I heard you. I’m going to pretend I didn’t. I’m going to have some klava. Then you can tell me about it.”
“If you want it directly, I could have Daymar—”
“No.”
“Let me see if I understand. Do I take it you
don’t
want Daymar to—”
“Kragar, shut up and let me drink my klava. Then you can be funny. If you try to be funny before I’ve had my klava, I will probably have to kill you, and then I’ll be sad.”
“Ah. Well. I wouldn’t want you to be sad.”
I squeezed my eyes tightly shut. When I opened them Kragar was gone. A little later Melestav tiptoed in, set a steaming cup in front of me, and tiptoed out again.
“Well, we’re in some kind of mood today, aren’t we, Boss?”
“I was fine when I got here.”
I drank my klava slowly. There is a perfect way to position the lips on the cup to take in just the right amount of klava to avoid burning yourself. Everything comes with practice. I reflected on practice and on annoyance and I drank my klava and then I called for Kragar.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s have it.”
“I got word from Daymar this morning that his psychic alarm had been tripped sometime last night. He says it failed to wake him, for which he sends his apologies—”
“Apologies? I didn’t think he did that.”
“—and suggests that the thief must be quite accomplished.”
“All right. We’d best head over and see what was taken.”
“He knows what was taken: one greatsword, very large, not terribly potent. Plain cross-guard with brass knobs, leather grips, sharp on one edge and part of the other, enough of a point for stabbing.”
I tried to call up a memory of that weapon, failed, but Loiosh managed—he put the picture into my mind. I saw it leaning against a wall along with several cousins. I hadn’t noticed it; it
had been utterly undistinctive and, for a Morganti blade, not even very well constructed.
“So, just as a guess, Kragar, I’d say it was a test, rather than that blade they were after. What do you think?”
“Possible. Or there’s something about it we don’t know. History, enchantments, something like that.”
“Could be that, too. Any suggestions about what we do next?”
“You could always hire Kiera to steal it back.”
“Letting whoever it is know that we know, for which we’d get a probably useless weapon. Any useful suggestions?”
“Whatever we do, we have to find whoever it was who took it. I presume Daymar will be able to find out.”
“Right. See to it.”
“Me?”
“Yes. I designate you Speaker to Daymar.”
“Thank you so much.”
“I pride myself on knowing my subordinates and matching tasks to their skills.”
“Don’t start, Vlad.”
There was actually a bit of truth in that remark—though only a bit. Since I’d been in control of the area, one of the things I was learning was what I could delegate and what I had to do myself. In fact, a little later I ran into a situation where—but never mind. That’s another story.
Kragar left; I stared off into space. Loiosh said,
“You worried, Boss?”
“I’m a worrier, chum.”
Unfortunately, there was nothing much to do that day, so I got to be pensive. I wanted to get up and pace, wander around the office, sit back down, and do all the things one does when one is nervous. But it’s just no damn good letting your subordinates think you’re easy to shake, so I sat at my desk, cooked some meals in my mind, remembered past lovers, and exchanged banter with Loiosh.
Lunchtime was a relief. I went to an Eastern place run by a
woman named Tserchi and had roasted duckling in a sour cherry sauce garnished with celery root and served with a pan-fried garlic bread that wasn’t as good as Noish-pa made but was perfectly edible. I tried to linger over the food, which of course made me eat faster. Tserchi joined me after the meal. I had a sorbet for dessert along with an orange liqueur and the pleasure of hearing her complain about how much she had to pay for ice. I was glad she was there, because I don’t like eating alone. I made it back to the office and Kragar was waiting for me.
I noticed his cloak when I returned, so I knew he was there. I sat down at my desk and tried not to look like I was waiting for him.
If you’re getting the impression that I’d built this thing up into something far more important than it probably was, well, I told myself the same thing. The fact that I turned out to be right might make me seem prescient. I don’t know. I’ve been wrong about such things, too, but those occasions don’t make for interesting stories.
“Okay, Vlad, I’ve got it,” Kragar told me.
“Took you long enough,” I said, just because I was irritated.
“Uh huh. And suppose I just walked in and gave you a name. What would you say?”
I’d have told him to go find out about the guy, of course, and probably have made some sarcastic remark about his failure to have already done so. Sometimes you have to admit defeat.
“Okay,” I said. “Good work.”
“Thanks.”
“Sit down and let’s hear it.”
Melestav stuck his head in right then and said, “Kragar? I found that map.”
“Thanks. Bring it in, please.”
We’re always polite to each other around the office.
I bit back any questions that Kragar would feel smug about answering, and waited. I shuffled paperweights and writing gear
off to the side of my desk while Kragar unrolled a map that almost covered it. The map seemed fairly recent, and had the peculiar mix of sharp and fuzzy areas that denotes a psiprint; most of it, however, was very clean and distinct, indicating a skilled and careful artist. I recognized the region at once because Dzur Mountain was marked near the left-hand border, and I recognized the Barnsnake River two-thirds of the way toward the right, which meant the markings on the right border were the foothills of the Eastern Mountains.
Kragar pointed to an area a little above and to the right of Dzur Mountain. “Fornia County,” he said, tracing an area that ran almost all the way to the edge of the map.
“Never heard of it.”
“Oh, well, never mind, then.”
“Get on with it.”
“Melestav is looking for a more detailed map, just in case we need it. But that’s where the weapon went.”
“And what do you know of Fornia? Count or Countess?”
“Count. Fornia e’Lanya. Dragonlord, of course. And a neighbor of Sethra Lavode.”
“I wonder who borrows sugar from whom?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Eastern custom.”
“The name ‘Fornia’ comes from the old language of the House of the Dragon and means ‘patience.’ There’s probably a story there but I don’t know it. Fornia is old; over two thousand. A sorcerer of some repute. Battle magic, mostly. He also keeps a staff of sorcerers to assist him. No discoveries, but they have a good reputation in the House.”
I grunted.
Kragar continued. “He did a fair bit of expanding before the Interregnum, and he’s been at it again during the last hundred years or so. Maintains a standing army of about six hundred, but also hires as needed, including Easterners. He—”
“Easterners? I don’t understand.”
“He’s been known to hire Eastern mercenaries for certain actions.”
“Eastern mercenaries?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know—I’ve never heard of—”
“Neither did I and I haven’t either.”
“Are you sure about it?”
“Yes,” said Kragar.
“From where in the East?”
“Not your part. Farther south, as I understand it. Some foot soldiers, but a lot of horsemen. He’s known to keep a strong cavalry and to use it well.”
“What do you mean, my part?”
“The part of the East your family came from.”
“How do you know which part of the East my family came from?”
“Vlad—”
“Yes?”
“Did you think I would be willing to work for you without finding out anything about you?”
“Uh … what else did you find out?”
“You don’t really want to know, do you?”
“Hmmm. All right. Go on.”
“That’s very strange, Boss.”
“How much Kragar knows about me? Or the business with the Eastern mercenaries?”
“Well, both, but I was thinking about the Eastern mercenaries.”
“Yeah, it’s strange.”
“Did you find out why he’d have stolen the weapon?”
“No, but I have a theory: the same reason anyone else would have; they represent power. If you want things like that, they’re the sorts of things you’d want.”
I digested that and failed to find a suitable response. “You said he keeps trying to expand his area. What does the Empress have to say about it?”
“He’s been going after other Dragonlords; the Empress has pretty much the same attitude about that as about Jhereg wars: Let them have at each other as long as it doesn’t interfere with the workings of the Empire.”
“Interesting parallel; I wonder what Morrolan would think about it?”
Kragar smiled. I think, as a one-time Dragonlord, he took special joy in remarks like that. Of course, it also made him a good source of information about matters military.

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