The Book of Jhereg

by Steven Brust

  I sputtered like a klava-boiler, then managed, “Why?”

  “Why not?” she said. “We’d killed her, hadn’t we? That was enough humiliation. Besides, the Empress is a friend of hers.”

  “Oh, great,” I said. “So now, she—”

  “She won’t do anything, Vlad. There isn’t anything she can do. When we revivified her we did a mind-probe and wrote down the details of every plot of any kind she’s ever been involved in, and we gave her a copy so that she knows we know.” She smiled. “Some of them were rather interesting, too.”

  I sighed. “Well, have it your way, but if I wake up dead one morning, I’ll come to you and complain about it.”

  “That’s telling her, boss.”

  “Shut up, Loiosh.”

  Norathar, to my amazement, said, “I think you did the right thing, Aliera.”

  “So do I,” said Sethra.

  I turned to the latter. “Indeed? Tell us what you did to Sethra the Younger.”

  “The House of the Dragon,” she said, “has decided that Sethra the Younger can never be Emperor or Warlord, nor can any of her heirs.”

  “Huh,” I said. “But what did you do to her?”

  She gave me a dreamy kind of half-smile. “I believe I found a suitable punishment for her. I made her explain the entire affair to me, then—”

  “Oh? What did she say?”

  “Nothing surprising. She wished to conquer the East, and complained to the Sorceress in Green, who was her friend, that when Lord K’laiyer became Emperor, he wouldn’t authorize an invasion of the East. The sorceress came up with a scheme to make sure Adron became the Dragon Heir because they knew Adron would appoint Baritt to be Warlord, and Baritt was sympathetic to the invasion idea. Baritt agreed, mostly because he thought Adron would be a better Emperor than K’laiyer—sorry, Norathar.”

  Norathar shrugged. Sethra continued.

  “After Adron’s Disaster, they just let things lie. When Zerika took the throne and things got going again, Morrolan proved to be the heir. They arranged for Sethra the Younger to become friendly with Morrolan and found that he wouldn’t object to an invasion, so they relaxed. When Aliera showed up out of nowhere and became the heir, they went back to work again. They came up with the idea of discrediting Aliera and Morrolan, using your friendship with Vlad. They already knew Laris, because he’d done some of the dirty work in arranging the fake genetic scan. When Baritt refused to cooperate, they had Laris kill him. Then they used that as a threat to make Laris attack you. Apparently he was perfectly willing to take over your territory, Vlad, but had to be convinced not to kill you right away. They told him he could have you after their plans were complete. You know the rest, I think.”

  I nodded. “Okay. Now, about Sethra the Younger . . .”

  “Oh yes. I had the Necromancer gate her to another Plane. Similar to Dragaera, but time runs at a different rate there.”

  “And she’s stuck?” It seemed rather harsh to me—better to kill her. Besides, I wasn’t nearly as upset with her as I was with the Sorceress in Green.

  But, “No,” said Sethra. “She can come back when her task is finished. It shouldn’t take more than a week of our time.”

  “Task?”

  “Yes.” Once more, Sethra gave us her dreamy little smile. “I put her in the desert, with plenty of food, water, shelter, and a stick. And I set her to writing, ‘I will not interfere with the Dragon Council,’ in the sand, eighty-three thousand, five hundred and twenty-one times.”

  * * *

  Picture an old man—an Easterner, almost seventy years old, which is a very impressive age for our race. But he’s in good condition for his age. He is poor, but not destitute. He has raised a family in the midst of the Dragaeran Empire and done it well. He has buried (an Eastern term for “out-lived”; I’m not sure why) a wife, a sister, a daughter, and two sons. The only surviving descendant is one grandson, who nearly gets himself killed every few weeks or so.

  He is almost completely bald, with only a fringe of white hair. He is a large, portly man, yet his fingers are still nimble enough with the rapier to give a good battle to a younger man, and to shock the sorcery out of any Dragaeran who doesn’t understand Eastern-style fencing.

  He lives in the Eastern ghetto, on the south side of Adrilankha. He ekes out a living as a witch, because he refuses to let his grandson support him. He worries about his grandson, but doesn’t let it show. He’ll help, but he won’t live through his children, and he won’t live their lives for them. When one of his sons tried to make himself into an imitation Dragaeran, he was saddened and felt his son was doomed to disappointment, but he never offered a word of criticism.

  I went to see this old gentleman the day after Laris’s death. Walking through the filth in the streets made me want to retch, but I hid it. Anyway, we all know Easterners are filthy, right? Look at how they live. Never mind that they can’t use sorcery to keep their neighborhoods clean the way Dragaerans do. If they want to use sorcery, they can become citizens of the Empire by moving into the country and becoming Teckla, or buying titles in the Jhereg. Don’t want to be serfs? They’re stubborn, too, aren’t they? Don’t have the money to buy titles? Of course not! Who’d give them a good job, seeing how filthy they are?

  I tried not to let it bother me. Cawti tried too, but I could see the strain around the corners of her eyes and feel it in the purposeful way she walked. I should have felt good about coming back here—successful Easterner boy walks through the old neighborhood. I should have, but I didn’t. I only felt sick.

  There was no sign above my grandfather’s shop, and nothing on display. Everyone in the neighborhood knew who he was and what he did, and he didn’t care about anyone outside it. Dragaerans had stopped using witchcraft when the Interregnum ended and sorcery worked again.

  As I walked under the doorway (no door), my head brushed a set of chimes and set them ringing. His back was to me, but I could see that he was making candles. He turned around and his face lit up in an almost toothless grin.

  “Vladimir!” he said. He looked at me, smiled at Cawti, and stood looking at me again. He and I could communicate psionically (he had taught me how), but he refused to do so unless it was necessary. He considered psionic communication something too precious to use casually—though, as was his custom, he never criticized me for using psionics as I do. So we traveled when we wanted to speak with each other. And, since we had to pass through areas where Easterners walking alone are in danger, and since he refused to be teleported, he seldom left the area.

  “Vladimir,” he said again. “And who is this?”

  Loiosh flew over, as if the question had been about him, and happily accepted some neck scratching.

  “Noish-pa,” I said, “I’d like you to meet Cawti.”

  She gave him a curtsy, and he positively beamed.

  “Cawti,” he repeated. “Do you have a patronymic?”

  “Not anymore,” she said. I bit my lip. Someday I’d ask her what that meant, but not now.

  He gave her a kindly smile, then looked at me, his eyes twinkling and a thin, white eyebrow climbing a broad forehead.

  “We’d like to get married,” I said. “We want your blessing.”

  He came forward and hugged her, and kissed both cheeks. Then he hugged me. When he pulled back, I saw tears at the corners of his eyes.

  “I’m happy for you,” he said. Then his brows furrowed, for just a moment, but I knew what he was asking.

  “She knows,” I said. “She’s in the same line of work herself.”

  He sighed. “Oh, Vladimir, Vladimir. Be careful.”

  “I will, Noish-pa. Things are looking better for me. I almost lost everything a while ago, but I’m all right now.”

  “Good,” he said. “But how did you come to almost lose everything? That isn’t good.”

  “I know, Noish-pa. For a while, the shadows were distracting me so I couldn’t see the target.”

  He nodded. “But come in,
have something to eat.”

  “Thank you, Noish-pa.”

  Cawti said, timidly (I think it was the only time in her life she’s been timid about anything), “Thank you . . . Noish-pa.”

  And his grin became even wider as he led us inside.

  * * *

  The next day I moved into Laris’s old office and set up business. I met with Toronnan, and set about trying to take control of the area Laris had been running—but that really belongs to a different tale. Besides, as I speak these words, I don’t know how it’s going to turn out, so I may not be telling you about it after all. I’ve still got word out for Wyrn and Miraf’n, and money to pay for their heads, so I expect that very soon I’ll be seeing them—after a fashion.

  The same day I moved into Laris’s old office I finally got a chance to cook Cawti a meal. I have to say I outdid myself, too—goose with Eastern red pepper, Valabar-style kethna dumplings, anise-jelled . . . but you don’t want to hear about that.

  I will say, though, that while I was cooking, I came across an onion that had a small bad spot on the side. I cut the spot out, and the rest of the onion was perfectly fine.

  Life is like that, sometimes.

  TECKLA

  This is the city: Adrilankha, Whitecrest.

  The capital and largest city of the Dragaeran Empire contains all that makes up the domain, but in greater concentration. All of the petty squabbles within the seventeen Great Houses, and sometimes among them, become both more petty and more vicious here. Dragonlords fight for honor, Iorich nobles fight for justice, Jhereg nobles fight for money, and Dzurlords fight for fun.

  If, in the course of this squabbling, a law is broken, the injured party may appeal to the Empire, which oversees the interplay of Houses with an impartiality that does credit to a Lyorn judging a duel. But the organization that exists at the core of House Jhereg operates illegally. The Empire is both unwilling and unable to enforce the laws and customs governing this inner society. Yet, sometimes, these unwritten laws are broken.

  That’s when I go to work. I’m an assassin.

  Prologue

  I FOUND AN ORACLE about three blocks down on Undauntra, a little out of my area. He wore the blue and white of the House of the Tiassa, and worked out of a hole-in-the-wall above a bakery, reached by climbing a long, knotted wooden stairway between crumbling walls to a rotting door. The inside of the place was about right. Leave it at that.

  He wasn’t busy, so I threw a couple of gold Imperials onto the table in front of him and sat opposite him on a shoddy octagonal stool that matched his. He looked to be a bit old, probably pushing fifteen hundred.

  He glanced at the pair of jhereg riding my shoulders, but chose to pretend to be unexcited. “An Easterner,” he said. Brilliant. “And a Jhereg.” The man was a genius. “How may I serve you?”

  “I have,” I told him, “suddenly acquired more cash than I’ve ever dreamed of having. My wife wants me to build a castle. I could buy a higher title in the Jhereg—I’m now a baronet. Or I could use the money to expand my business. If I choose the latter, I risk, um, competition problems. How serious will these be? That’s my question.”

  He put his right arm on the table and rested his chin on it, drumming the tabletop with the fingers of his left hand while staring up at me. He must have recognized me; how many Easterners are there who are high up in the organization and wander around with jhereg on their shoulders?

  When he’d looked at me long enough to be impressive, he said, “If you try to expand your business, a mighty organization will fall.”

  Well, la-dee-da. I leaned over the table and slapped him.

  “Rocza wants to eat him, boss. Can she?”

  “Maybe later, Loiosh. Don’t bother me.”

  To the Tiassa, I said, “I have a vision of you with two broken legs. I wonder if it’s a true one?”

  He mumbled something about sense of humor, and closed his eyes. After thirty seconds or so, I saw sweat on his forehead. Then he shook his head and brought out a deck of cards wrapped in blue velvet with his House insignia on them. I groaned. I hate Card readers.

  “Maybe he wants to play shereba,” said Loiosh. I caught the faint psionic echo of Rocza laughing.

  The oracle looked apologetic. “I wasn’t getting anything,” he explained.

  “All right, all right,” I said. “Let’s get on with it.”

  After we went through the ritual, he tried to explain all the oracular meanings the Cards revealed to him. When I said, “Just the answers please,” he looked hurt.

  He studied the Mountain of Changes for a while, then said, “As far as I can see, m’lord, it doesn’t matter. What’s going to happen doesn’t depend on any action you’re going to take.”

  He gave me the apologetic look again. He must have practiced it. “That’s the best I can do.”

  Splendid. “All right,” I said. “Keep the change.” That was supposed to be a joke, but I don’t think he got it, so he probably still thinks I have no sense of humor.

  I went back down the stairs and out onto Undauntra, a wide street packed full of craft shops on the east side and sparsely settled with small homes on the west, making it look oddly lopsided. About halfway back to my office, Loiosh said, “Someone’s coming, boss. Looks like muscle.”

  I brushed my hair back from my eyes with one hand and adjusted my cloak with the other, allowing me to check a few concealed goodies. I felt tension in Rocza’s grip on my shoulder, but left it to Loiosh to calm her down. She was still new at this work.

  “Only one, Loiosh?”

  “Certain, boss.”

  “Okay.”

  About then, a medium-tall Dragaeran in the colors of House Jhereg (grey and black, if you’re taking notes) fell into stride next to me. Medium-tall in a Dragaeran, you understand, made him a head and a half taller than I.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Taltos,” he said, pronouncing my name right.

  I grunted back at him. His sword was light, worn at the hip, and clanked along between us. His cloak was full enough to conceal dozens of the same kind of things my cloak concealed sixty-three of.

  He said, “A friend of mine would like to congratulate you on your recent successes.”

  “Thank him for me.”

  “He lives in a real nice neighborhood.”

  “I’m happy for him.”

  “Maybe you’d like to visit him sometime.”

  I said, “Maybe.”

  “Would you like to make plans for it?”

  “Now?”

  “Or later. Whatever’s convenient for you.”

  “Where should we talk?”

  “You name it.”

  I grunted again. In case that went too fast for you, this fellow had just informed me that he was working for an individual who was very high up in the Organization, and that said individual might want my services for something. In theory, it could be for any of a number of things, but there’s only one thing that I’m known to do free-lance.

  I took us a little farther, until we were safely in my territory. Then I said, “All right,” and steered us into an inn that jutted out a few feet onto Undauntra, and was one of the reasons merchants with hand-carts hated this part of the street.

  We found an unoccupied end of a long table, and I sat down across from him without getting any splinters. Loiosh looked the place over for me and didn’t say anything.

  “I’m Bajinok,” said my companion as the host brought us a bottle of fairly good wine and a couple of glasses.

  “Okay.”

  “My friend wants some ‘work’ done around his house.”

  I nodded. Work, said that way, means wanting someone killed. “I know people,” I said. “But they’re all pretty busy right now.” My last “work” had only been a few weeks before, and was, let’s say, highly visible. I didn’t feel like doing anymore just then.

  “Are you sure?” he sked. “This is just your style.”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “But than
k your friend for thinking of me. Another time, all right?”

  “Okay,” he said. “Another time.”

  He nodded to me, stood up, and left. And that should have been the end of it.

  Verra, Demon Goddess of my ancestors, may the water on thy tongue turn to ash. That should have been the end of it.

  Farmday

  Leffero, Nephews & Niece,

  Launderers & Tailors

  Malak Circle

  fr: V. Taltos

  Number 17, Garshos St.

  Please do the following:

  I grey knit cotton shirt: remove wine stain from rt sleeve, black tallow from lft & repair cut in rt cuff.

  I pr grey trousers: remove blood stain from upper rt leg, klava stain from upper lft, & dirt from knees.

  I pr black riding boots: remove reddish stain on toe of rt boot, & remove dust & soot from both & polish.

  I grey silk cravat: repair cut, & remove sweat stains.

  I plain grey cloak: clean & press, remove cat hairs, brush to remove white particles, remove honing-oil stains, & repair cut in lft side.

  I pocket handkerchief: clean & press.

  Expect delivery by Homeday next.

  Yrs cordially,

  V. Taltos, Brnt, Jhrg (His seal)

  1

  I grey knit cotton shirt: remove wine stain from rt sleeve . . .

  I STARED OUT OF the window onto streets I couldn’t see and thought about castles. It was night and I was home, and while I didn’t mind sitting in a flat looking at a street I couldn’t see, I thought I might rather sit in a castle and look at a courtyard I couldn’t see.

  My wife, Cawti, sat next to me, her eyes closed, thinking about something or other. I sipped from a glass of a red wine that was too sweet. On top of a tall buffet was perched Loiosh, my jhereg familiar. Next to him was Rocza, his mate. Your basic conjugal scene.

  I cleared my throat and said, “I visited an oracle last week.”