Authors: Steven Brust
Hawk (Vlad)
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This book is dedicated to the memory of Enos Harold Hunley (1944–2010), who kept his eyes open when he was needed.
A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Corwin for constant technical support, and to Jennifer for the handling of life details. Speaking of life: Thanks, Martin. I was given outstanding criticism on this one by Emma Bull, Pamela Dean, Will Shetterly, Adam Stemple, and Skyler White. Alexx Kay (
http://www.panix.com/~alexx/dragtime.html
) did some very useful continuity checking for me. Also thanks to everyone who contributes to The Lyorn Records (
http://dragaera.wikia.com/wiki/Main_Page
). A special thanks to Jim Macdonald for the throat-cutting and Teresa Nielsen Hayden for the wonderful line edit, and to Terry McGarry for the copyedit. Finally, a warm thank-you to The Flying Karamazov Brothers, who, albeit unknowingly, inspired this one.
Additional proofreading and continuity checking by sQuirrelco Textbenders, Inc.
C
ONTENTS
1. Making a Stand or Making Tracks
2. Making Tracks or Making a Hole
3. Making a Hole or Making Plans
4. Making Plans or Making Conversation
5. Making Conversation or Making Deals
6. Making Deals or Making Small Talk
7. Making Small Talk or Making Waves
8. Making Waves or Making Magic
9. Making Magic or Making Trouble
10. Making Trouble or Making Progress
11. Making Progress or Making Threats
12. Making Threats or Making Connections
13. Making Connections or Making Music
14. Making Music or Making Bargains
15. Making Bargains or Making Tests
16. Making Tests or Making Enemies
17. Making Enemies or Making a Stand
P
ROLOGUE
My name is Vlad Taltos. I used to be an assassin, until—
The criminal organization that operates as part of the House of the Jhereg has rules. One is that you do not threaten the contact between the Organization and the Empire, because they need that guy to keep the Empire happy. I kind of broke that rule a little.
There’s also a rule that you do not testify against the Organization to the Empire. I kind of broke that rule a lot.
I had reasons, having to do with an estranged wife, a rebellion, and some guys really pissing me off. The Jhereg is not that interested in my reasons. So, yeah, now I’m an ex-assassin, and now the Jhereg wants to kill me, and they’re happy to use any sort of personal connections, blackmail, magic, or influence to do it. This is not a comfortable position.
When you have a price on your head you’ve got nothing: no contacts, no access to your operating capital, no chance to see your estranged wife and eight-year-old son. You move around to anywhere you think will keep you ahead of the hired killers. You do whatever work comes your way. You rely on anyone who’s still talking to you: a notorious thief whose name makes everyone around you check his pockets; an undead Enchantress famous for destroying anyone who comes near her; a sorcerer known to have sacrificed entire villages to his goddess; his even more hot-tempered cousin; and a flying lizard of a familiar with a nasty sense of humor.
Bottom line: As long as you’re wanted, you’re not staying anywhere.
Part One
E
YES
OF
THE
H
AWK
1
M
AKING
A
S
TAND
OR
M
AKING
T
RACKS
Several years ago, I was getting drunk with four or five of the most powerful sorcerers in the Empire—like you do—when Daymar told a story. We were in the library of Castle Black, having just finished doing something dangerous and preposterous, and our host, Morrolan, pulled out a case of a really good white wine from Descin. Sethra Lavode, the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain, was there, as was Morrolan’s cousin Aliera, and I think the Necromancer, and of course Daymar.
The more we talked, the more we drank; and the more we drank, the less I can recall of what we said. But I remember that at some point in there they started telling stories of the various rites of passage among the different Houses. You know, some tests or things you go through before you’re considered fully part of the House, or maybe an adult, or officially a bloodthirsty asshole, or whatever it is your House values.
All the Great Houses except the Teckla and the Jhereg have them, and they’re all different. The Dragonlords—Morrolan and Aliera—told of having to make tough command decisions during a combat exercise. Sethra recounted different tests among the Dzur, the Tiassa, and the Iorich across much of history, which she could do, having lived through all of history and a little more besides. I talked about a couple of traditions among Eastern witches; including the one that had got me the jhereg that was, at that moment, sitting on my shoulder telepathically making smart-ass remarks.
Daymar turned out to be a surprisingly entertaining storyteller for a guy who never seemed sure where his imagination stopped and reality started. I don’t remember a lot about what he said, but I remember enjoying it. And there is one piece that must have stuck with me. I know this because years later I abruptly remembered it, setting off, well, I guess everything that I’m about to tell you.
Here’s the bit of what he said that I suddenly remembered: “I had to hide from the Orb while I did it.” I must have been pretty drunk not to react at the time, but—jumping forward to now, to a time when I was on the run from the Jhereg and concentrating all of my energy on living through each day—I woke up from a light sleep and said aloud, “Verra’s tits and toenails!”
I sat there in a dank, windowless, cell-like room, with my back against the stone wall, and let things play out in my head. Then I stood up and started pacing. There wasn’t enough space in the room, so I went out and started pacing up and down the hall.
“Okay,”
I said into Loiosh’s mind after a while.
“I might have something.”
“Think soup and bed rest will cure it, Boss?”
“Something that might get me out of trouble with the Jhereg.”
Silence in my mind. Then,
“Really?”
“Maybe.”
“What—”
“Find Daymar. Have him meet me across the street,”
I said.
Loiosh didn’t reply; I opened the door at the far end of the hallway and he flew out, followed by his mate, Rocza. A moment later she returned and hissed at me. That was another time when I was glad she and I couldn’t speak with each other, although, really, she was communicating just fine.
* * *
I don’t know. If I hadn’t been on my way to see my kid, I might not have decided it was time to risk everything. I wonder. I mean, it probably wouldn’t have changed things, but that’s the sort of thing you wonder about later.
So, yeah. A couple of days before I suddenly woke up with that memory of Daymar, I was on my way to visit my kid at the home of my estranged wife in South Adrilankha when someone tried to kill me. Loiosh warned me.
“Boss,”
he said.
“There are two people up ahead, hiding. They’re Dragaerans. I think there’s a Morganti weapon.”
He didn’t actually say, “They’re waiting to kill you,” but he also didn’t tell me that water is wet and rocks are hard (nor that water is hard, but never mind that for now).
I stopped. This part of South Adrilankha was full of cottages set at varying distances back from a narrow road dotted with large deciduous trees. I figured the trees were planted there so their leaves would catch the stench of the slaughterhouses and keep it close to you. That way, even on days like this when the breeze wasn’t from the south, you had a little reminder of why you hated this part of the city. I stepped behind one of the trees and spoke to Loiosh.
“Goodness,”
I said.
“Whatever could they want?”
“Imperial representatives, wanting to present you with an island kingdom?”
“That’s just what I was thinking they were.”
“As you would say: Heh.”
“How far ahead?”
“Fifty yards or so.”
“In other words, right in front of Cawti’s house?”
“Yeah. Also—”
“What?”
“Another guy, leaning against the house itself.”
“That doesn’t make any—”
“Colors of the House of the Dragon, Boss, and a gold half-cloak.”
“That makes perfect sense.”
It was a dilemma. The assassins—I had no doubt they were assassins because I’m not an idiot—were in front of the house my kid lived in. I could come around behind them and hunt the hunters, but that would bring the whole mess to my front door, in a fairly literal way. Yeah, Cawti was there, and she could certainly handle herself. But murder tends to get noticed, sometimes even in South Adrilankha. And there was a Dragonlord, an Imperial Guardsman, on duty. That would mean the Jhereg couldn’t get me, here and now; but I couldn’t get them, either. Put it another way: Much as I wanted to take them down, it seemed like the best thing would be to just walk away.
But if they were watching my house (dammit,
not
my house; my ex-wife’s house), it meant it would never be safe to visit there.
“Boss, it never
has
been safe to visit there.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And why the guardsman?”
“Norathar. I mean, the Dragon Heir, not the boy. I’ll bet you six dead teckla she arranged for that gold-cloak to be there, to keep Cawti and the boy safe.”
I chuckled a bit to myself as I imagined just what Cawti must have said about being protected. I’d have loved to have eavesdropped on that conversation. Probably psychic, though. Too bad you can’t listen in on someone else’s psychic conversations.
