The Book of Taltos (17 page)

The tailor said, “Come into some funds, eh?”

I didn’t know what to say so I just gave him a terse nod. I don’t know what he read into that, but his eyes widened just a bit, showing what could have been fear. A small thrill passed through me as I turned away and said, “I’ll expect them in a week.”

He said, “Yes, they’ll be done.” He sounded just a bit breathless.

I went a bit farther down the street and bought a brace of throwing knives. I resolved to start practicing with them.

Then I reported in to Nielar. He nodded to me and sent me to the room with the shereba game. Two days before, I’d been playing there, and a large Jhereg had thrown me out after I’d gotten into a tussle with another customer. Now I was sitting where the Jhereg had sat. I tried to look as relaxed and unconcerned as he’d been. I guess I was partially successful.

But, hell, I enjoyed it.

W
E LOST MOST OF
the day eating and socializing with the cat-centaurs and enjoying it, although it got us no closer to our goal. I don’t usually gamble, but these poor, uncivilized creatures didn’t even know how to play S’yang Stones, so I had to show them, didn’t I? We had a good medium of exchange, too, as there are certain cuts of kethna that are better than others. The cat-centaurs were fairly dexterous, so I quit when they were starting to catch on.

Mist said, “I suspect that I won’t be thanking you for teaching us this game, in another few weeks.”

“It’s just harmless fun,” I said between bites of my fresh-roasted winnings. As they say, gambling isn’t fun; winning is fun.

It was fun exchanging banter with them, and I learned to know when I was pushing one too far by watching the tail, which would have been very strange if I’d stopped to think about it. Morrolan did some healing spells on three of the cat-centaurs whose left legs had been injured in one way or another. “There’s been a rash of that lately,” said Mist after thanking him.

“A curse?” said Morrolan.

“Just bad luck, I think.”

“There’s a lot of that going around,” said Morrolan.

“Especially where you’re going.”

Morrolan shrugged. “I don’t imagine you know much more about the place than we do.”

“I usually avoid it.”

“We would, too, if we could,” said Morrolan.

Mist stared at the ground, her tail flicking. “Why are you going there?”

Morrolan said, “It’s a long story.”

Mist said, “We have time for long tales. Shut up, Brandy.”

Morrolan seemed disinclined to talk about it, so a silence fell. Then a male I didn’t recognize approached Mist and handed her something. She took and studied it. I hadn’t noticed before how long and sleek her hands were, and her fingernails made me wince, recalling a girl I once knew. What Mist held seemed to be a piece of bone. After some study she said, “Yes. This will do.” She handed it to Morrolan.

He took it, puzzled, while I went around behind him and stared at it over his shoulder. It probably had been broken from the skull of the kethna. It was very roughly square, about two inches on a side, and I could see some thin tracings on it. I could make nothing whatsoever of the markings.

Morrolan said, “Thank you. What—”

“Should you come across Kelchor in the Paths of the Dead, and show her this token, it may be that she’ll protect you.” She paused. “On the other hand, she may not.”

“Gods are like that,” said Morrolan.

“Aren’t they, though,” said Mist.

I had my doubts about whether either of them actually knew anything.

H
ERE’S SOMETHING YOU CAN
do, if you ever get the mood. Find a Dragaeran who isn’t inclined to beat you up, and start talking about magic. Watch the curl of his lip when he hears about witchcraft. Then start discussing numbers associated with the art. Talk about how, with some spells, you want two black candles and one white one, other times you want two white ones and no black. Mention that, for instance, in one of the simpler love spells you must use three pinches of rosemary. The size of a “pinch” doesn’t matter, but the number three is vital. In another spell you can tell him, you must speak in lines of nine syllables, although what you say doesn’t matter.

Long about this time, he’ll be unable to hide his contempt and he’ll start going on about how silly it is to attach significance to numbers.

That’s when you get to have your fun. Cock your head to the side, stare at him quizzically, and say, “Why is the Dragaeran population broken up into seventeen Great Houses? Why are there seventeen months in the Dragaeran year? Why is seventeen times seventeen years the minimum time for a House to hold the throne and the Orb, while the maximum is three thousand something, or seventeen times seventeen times seventeen? Why are there said to be seventeen Great Weapons?”

He will open his mouth and close it once or twice, shake his head, and say, “But seventeen is the mystical number.”

Now you can nod wisely, your eyes twinkling, say, “Oh, I see,” and walk away.

I mention this only because I have a little nagging feeling that the Dragaerans may be right. At least, it does seem that the number seventeen keeps popping up when I least expect it.

At any rate, I was seventeen years old the first time I was paid to kill a man.

W
E MADE OUR FAREWELLS
to the cat-centaurs the next morning. Mist and Morrolan exchanged words that struck me as a bit formal and pompous on both sides. Brandy and I enjoyed making fun of them, though, and Loiosh had a few remarks as well.

Then Mist came up to me, her tail swishing, and she seemed to be smiling. She said, “You are a good companion.”

I said, “Thanks.”

She paused, and I was afraid she was gathering herself together for some speech that I’d have trouble keeping a straight face for, but then she lowered her spear until its point was a few inches from my breast. Loiosh tensed to spring. Mist said, “You may touch my spear.”

Oh. Peachy. I had to restrain myself from glancing over at Brandy to see if he was sniggering. But what the hell. I touched it, then drew my rapier. I said, “You may touch my sword.”

She did so, solemnly. And you know, all sarcasm aside, I was moved by the whole thing. Mist gave Morrolan and me a last nod, then she led her friends or tribe or companions, or whatever, back into the plain. Morrolan and I watched them until they were out of sight, then got our things together and set off for the mountains.

After walking a few more hours, Morrolan stopped again and stared straight ahead, toward the base of the mountains. He said, “I think I can make out enough details to teleport us safely.”

I said, “Better be sure. Let’s walk another few hours.”

He glanced at me. “I’m sure.”

I kept my moan silent and merely said, “Fine. I’m ready.”

He stared hard at the mountains ahead of us as I drew next to him. All
was still except for our breathing. He raised his hands very slowly, exhaled loudly, and brought his arms down. There was the sickening lurch in my stomach and I closed my eyes. I felt the ground change beneath my feet, opened my eyes again, looked around, and almost fell.

We were on a steep slope and I was facing down. Loiosh shrieked and dived into my cloak as I fought to recover my balance. After flailing around for a while I did so.

The air was cool here, and very biting. Behind us was an incredible expanse of green. All around us were mountains, hard and rocky. I managed to sit without losing my balance. Then, using my backpack as a pillow, I lay on my back on the slope, waiting for the nausea to pass.

After a few minutes, Morrolan said, “We’re about as close as we can get.”

I said, “What does that mean?”

“As you approach Greymist Valley, sorcery becomes more difficult. From the time you reach the Deathgate, it is impossible.”

I said, “Why is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you certain it’s true, or is it just rumor?”

“I’m certain. I was at the top of the falls with Zerika, holding off some local brigands while she made her descent. If I could have used sorcery, I would have.”

I said, “Brigands?”

“Yes.”

“Charming.”

“I don’t see any at the moment.”

“Great. Well, if they return, they may recognize you and leave us alone.”

“None of those will return.”

“I see.”

“There are far fewer now than during the Interregnum, Vlad. I wouldn’t worry. Those were wilder times.”

I said, “Do you miss them?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes.”

I continued looking around and noticed a few jhereg circling in the distance. I said,
“Loiosh, did you see the jhereg?”

He said,
“I saw them.”
He was still hiding inside my cloak.

“What’s the matter, chum?”

“Boss, did you see them?”

I looked up at them again but couldn’t figure out the problem until one of them landed on a cliff far above us. Then, suddenly, the scale made sense.

“By the Phoenix, Loiosh! Those things are bigger than I am.”

“I know.”

“I don’t believe it. Look at them!”

“No.”

I stood up slowly, put my pack on, and nodded to Morrolan. We continued up the slope for another couple of hours, then it leveled off. The view was magnificent, but Loiosh couldn’t appreciate it. From time to time, the giant jhereg would come close enough to us to give me the creeps, so I couldn’t blame him. After another hour or so, we came to a wide, fast stream coming from up a slope we didn’t take.

Morrolan turned with the stream, and in a couple more hours it had become a small river. By dark it was a big river, and we found a place to make our last camp.

As we were settling in for the night, I said, “Morrolan, does this river have a name?”

He said, “Blood River.”

I said, “Thought so,” and drifted off to sleep.

After walking for an hour or so the next morning, we had followed it to Deathgate Falls.

I suppose I would have composed a chant if I’d had time, but I’m not very good at that. No chance for it now, though. Loiosh lent me strength, which I poured into the enchantment, creating more tension. The rhythm became stronger, and the candle suddenly flared before me.

Scary.

I concentrated on it, turning the flare into a shower of sparks, which exploded into a globe of flickering nothing. I brought it together again, surrounding the candle flame with a rainbow nimbus. I didn’t have to ask Loiosh to pick up and control it; I wanted him to and he did.

My breathing stilled; I felt my eyes narrow. I was relaxed, easy and part of things, no longer on the edge. This was a stage and it would pass, but I could use it while it lasted. Now was the time to forge the connection between source and destination, to establish the path along which reality would bend.

The knife quivered, saying, “Start here.” All right, fine. Start there and do what? I looked from knife to rune and back. I reached forward with my right hand, forefinger extended, and traced a line. I repeated the process. And again.

I kept it up, always going from knife to rune. After a while there was a line of flame connecting them.