The Book of Jhereg

by Steven Brust

  She turned and stared at me. “You? Visiting an oracle? What’s the world coming to? About what?”

  I answered her last question. “About what would happen if I took all that money and plowed it into the business.”

  “Ah! That again. I suppose he told you something vague and mystical, like you’ll be dead in a week if you try.”

  “Not exactly.” I told her about the visit. Her face lost its bantering look. I like her bantering look. But then, I like most of her looks.

  “What do you make of it?” she said when I was finished.

  “I don’t know. You take that stuff more seriously than I do; what do you make of it?”

  She chewed her lower lip for a while. Around then Loiosh and Rocza left the buffet and flew off down the hall, into a small alcove that was reserved for their privacy. It gave me ideas which I suppressed, because I dislike having my actions suggested to me by a flying reptile.

  Finally, Cawti said, “I don’t know, Vladimir. We’ll have to wait and see, I guess.”

  “Yeah. Just something more to worry about. It’s not as if we don’t have enough—”

  There was a thumping sound, as if someone were hitting the door with a blunt object. Cawti and I were up at almost the same instant, myself with a dagger, she with a pair of them. The wineglass I’d been holding dropped to the floor and I shook droplets off my hand. We looked at each other and waited. The thumping sound was repeated. Loiosh came tearing out of the alcove and came to rest on my shoulder, Rocza behind him, complaining loudly. I started to tell him to shut her up, but Loiosh must have because she became quiet. I knew this couldn’t be a Jhereg attack, because the Organization doesn’t bother you at home, but I had made more than one enemy outside of the Jhereg.

  We moved toward the door. I stood on the side that would open, Cawti stood directly in front of it. I took a deep breath, let it out, and put my hand on the handle. Loiosh tensed. Cawti nodded. A voice from the other side said, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  I stopped.

  Cawti’s brows came together. She called out tentatively, “Gregory?”

  The voice came back. “Yeah. Is that you, Cawti?”

  She said, “Yes.”

  I said, “What the—?”

  “It’s all right,” she said, but her voice lacked certainty and she didn’t sheath her daggers.

  I blinked a couple of times. Then it occurred to me that Gregory was an Eastern name. It was the Eastern custom to strike someone’s door with your fist if you wanted to announce yourself. “Oh,” I said. I relaxed a bit. I called out, “Come in.”

  A man, as human as I, started to enter, saw us, and stopped. He was small, middle-aged, about half bald, and startled. I suppose walking through a doorway to find three weapons pointing at you would be enough to startle anyone who wasn’t used to it.

  I smiled. “Come on in, Gregory,” I said, still holding my dagger at his chest. “Drink?”

  “Vladimir,” said Cawti, I suppose hearing the edge in my voice. Gregory didn’t move and didn’t say anything.

  “It’s all right, Vladimir,” Cawti told me directly.

  “With whom?” I asked her, but I made my blade vanish and stood aside. Gregory stepped past me a bit gingerly, but not handling himself too badly, all things considered.

  “I don’t like him, boss,” said Loiosh.

  “Why not?”

  “He’s an Easterner; he ought to have a beard.”

  I didn’t answer because I sort of agreed; facial hair is one of the things that sets us apart from Dragaerans, which was why I grew a mustache. I tried to grow a beard once, but Cawti threatened to shave it off with a rusty dagger after her second set of whisker burns.

  Gregory was shown to a cushion, sitting down in a way that made me realize that he was prematurely balding rather than middle-aged. Cawti, weapons also gone, sat on the couch. I brought out some wine, did a little cooling spell, and poured us each a glass. Gregory nodded his thanks and sipped. I sat down next to Cawti.

  “All right,” I said. “Who are you?”

  Cawti said, “Vlad . . .” Then she sighed. “Vladimir, this is Gregory. Gregory: my husband, the Baronet of Taltos.”

  I saw perhaps the faintest of curl to his lip when she recited my title, and took an even stronger dislike to him. I can sneer at Jhereg titles; that doesn’t mean anyone else can sneer at mine.

  I said, “Okay. We all know each other. Now, who are you, and what are you doing trying to knock down my door?”

  His eyes flicked from Loiosh, perched on my right shoulder, to my face, to the cut of my clothes. I felt like I was being examined. This did nothing to improve my temper. I glanced over at Cawti. She bit her lip. She could tell I was becoming unhappy.

  “Vladimir,” she said.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Gregory is a friend of mine. I met him while visiting your grandfather a few weeks ago.”

  “Go on.”

  She shifted uncomfortably. “There’s a lot more to tell. I’d like to find out what he wants first, if I may.”

  There was just the least bit of an edge to her voice, so I backed off.

  “Should I take a walk?”

  “Dunno. But thanks for asking. Kiss.”

  I looked at him and waited. He said, “Which question do you want me to answer first?”

  “Why don’t you have a beard?”

  “What?”

  Loiosh hissed a laugh. “Never mind,” I said. “What do you want here?”

  He looked back and forth between Cawti and me, then fixed his glance on her and said, “Franz was killed yesterday evening.”

  I glanced at my wife to see what effect this was having on her. Her eyes had widened slightly. I held my tongue.

  After a pair of breaths, Cawti said, “Tell me about it.”

  Gregory had the nerve to glance significantly in my direction. It almost got him hurt. He must have decided that I was all right, though, because he said, “He was standing at the door of the hall we’d rented, checking people, when someone just walked up to him and cut his throat. I heard the commotion and ran down, but whoever it was had vanished by the time I got there.”

  “Did anyone see him?”

  “Not well. It was a Dragaeran though. They all—you—never mind. He was wearing black and grey.”

  “Sounds professional,” I remarked, and Gregory looked at me in a way that you ought never to look at someone unless you are holding a blade at his throat. It was becoming difficult to let these things pass.

  Cawti glanced at me quickly, then stood up. “All right, Gregory,” she said. “I’ll speak to you later.”

  He looked startled, and opened his mouth to say something, but Cawti gave him one of those looks she gives me when I carry a joke too far. She saw him to the door. I didn’t stand up.

  “All right,” I said when she came back. “Tell me about it.”

  She studied me for a moment, as if looking at me for the first time. I knew enough not to say anything. Presently she said, “Let’s take a walk.”

  * * *

  There was no time in my life up to that point when I was as filled with so many strong, conflicting emotions as when we returned from that walk. No one, including Loiosh, had spoken during the last ten minutes, when I had run out of sarcastic questions and removed Cawti’s need for terse, biting answers. Loiosh rhythmically squeezed alternate talons on my right shoulder, and I was subliminally aware of this and comforted by it. Rocza, who sometimes flies over our heads, sometimes rests on my other shoulder, and sometimes rests on Cawti’s, was doing the last. The Adrilankhan air was cutting, and the endless lights of the city cast battling shadows before our feet as I found and opened the door to the flat.

  We undressed and went to bed speaking only as necessary and answering in monosyllables. I lay awake for a long time, moving as little as possible so Cawti wouldn’t think I was lying awake. I don’t know about her, but she didn’t move much.

  She arose before
me the next morning and roasted, ground, and brewed the klava. I helped myself to a cup, drank it, and walked over to the office. Loiosh was with me; Rocza stayed behind. There was a cold, heavy fog in from the sea and almost no breeze—giving what is called “assassin’s weather,” which is nonsense. I said hello to Kragar and Melestav and sat down to brood and be miserable.

  “Snap out of it, boss.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ve got things to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like finding out who shined the Easterner.”

  I thought that over for a moment. If you are going to have a familiar, it doesn’t do to ignore him. “All right, why?”

  He didn’t say anything, but presently memories began to present themselves for my consideration. Cawti, as I’d seen her at Dzur Mountain after she had killed me (there’s a story there, but never mind); Cawti holding me after someone else tried to kill me; Cawti holding a knife at Morrolan’s throat and explaining how it was going to be, while I sat paralyzed and helpless; Cawti’s face the first time I had made love with her. Strange memories, too—my emotions at the time, filtered through a reptilian mind that was linked to my own.

  “Stop it, Loiosh!”

  “You asked.”

  I sighed. “I suppose I did. But why did she have to get involved in something like that? Why—?”

  “Why don’t you ask her?”

  “I did. She didn’t answer.”

  “She would have if you hadn’t been so—”

  “I don’t need advice on my marriage from a Verra-be-damned . . . no, I suppose I do, don’t I? All right. What would you do?”

  “Ummm . . . I’d tell her that if I had two dead teckla I’d give her one.”

  “You’re a lot of help.”

  “Melestav!” I yelled. “Send Kragar in here.”

  “Right away, boss.”

  Kragar is one of those people who are just naturally unnoticeable. You could be sitting in a chair looking for him and not realize that you were sitting in his lap. So I concentrated hard on the door, and managed to see him come in.

  “What is it, Vlad?”

  “Open your mind, my man. I have a face to give to you.”

  “Okay.”

  He did, and I concentrated on Bajinok—the fellow I’d spoken with a few days before, who had offered me “work” that would be “just my style.” Could he have meant an Easterner? Yeah, maybe. He had no way of knowing that to finalize an Easterner would defeat the whole purpose of my having become an assassin in the first place.

  Or would it? Something nasty in my mind bade me remember a certain conversation I’d recently had with Aliera, but I chose not to think about it.

  “Do you know him?” I asked Kragar. “Who does he work for?”

  “Yeah. He works for Herth.”

  “Ah ha.”

  “Ah ha?”

  “Herth,” I said, “runs the whole South Side.”

  “Where the Easterners live.”

  “Right. An Easterner was just killed. By one of us.”

  “Us?” said Loiosh. “Who is us?”

  “A point. I’ll think about it.”

  “What does that have to do with us?” asked Kragar, introducing another meaning of us, just to confuse us. Excuse me.

  I said, “I don’t know yet, but—Deathsgate, I do know. I’m not ready to talk about it yet. Could you set me up a meeting with Herth?”

  He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair and looked at me quizzically. It wasn’t usual for me to leave him in the dark about things like that, but he finally said, “Okay,” and left.

  I took out a dagger and started flipping it. After a moment I said to Loiosh, “She still could have told me about it.”

  “She tried. You weren’t interested in discussing it.”

  “She could have tried harder.”

  “It wouldn’t have come up if this hadn’t happened. And it is her own life. If she wants to spend half of it in the Easterners’ ghetto, rabble-rousing, that’s her—”

  “It hardly sounds like rabble-rousing to me.”

  “Ah,” said Loiosh.

  Which shows how much good it is to try to get the better of your familiar.

  * * *

  I’d rather skip over the next couple of days, but as I had to live them, you can at least put up with a sketch. For two solid days Cawti and I hardly exchanged a word. I was mad that she hadn’t told me about this group of Easterners, and she was mad because I was mad. Once or twice I’d say something like, “If you’d—”, then bite it back. I’d notice that she was looking at me hopefully, but I’d only notice too late, and then I’d stalk out of the room. Once or twice she’d say something like, “Don’t you even care—”, and then stop. Loiosh, bless his heart, didn’t say anything. There are some things that even a familiar can’t help you work out.

  But it’s a hell of a thing to go through days like that. It leaves scars.

  Herth agreed to meet me at a place I own called The Terrace. He was a quiet little Dragaeran, only half a head taller than I, with an almost bashful way of dropping his eyes. He came in with two enforcers. I also had two, a fellow who was called Sticks because he liked to beat people with them, and one named Glowbug, whose eyes would light up at the oddest times. The enforcers found good positions for doing what they were paid for. Herth took my suggestion and ordered the pepper sausage, which is better tasted than described.

  As we were finishing up our Eastern-style desert pancakes (which, really, no one should make except Valabar’s, but these were all right), Herth said, “So what can I do for you?”

  I said, “I have a problem.”

  He nodded, dropping his eyes again as if to say, “Oh, how could little me help someone like you?”

  I went on, “There was an Easterner finalized a few days ago, by a professional. It happened in your area, so I was wondering if, maybe, you could tell me a bit about what happened, and why.”

  Now, there were several possible answers he could have given me. He could have explained as much as he knew about it, he could have smiled and claimed ignorance, he could have asked me what my interest was. Instead, he looked at me, stood up, and said, “Thanks for the dinner; I’ll see you again, maybe.” Then he left.

  I sat there for a while, finishing my klava. “What do you make of that, Loiosh?”

  “I don’t know, boss. It’s funny that he didn’t ask why you wanted to find out. And if he knows, why did he agree to the meeting in the first place?”

  “Right,” I said.

  I signed the bill and left, Sticks and Glowbug preceding me out of the place. When we reached the office I told them to take off. It was evening, and I was usually done by that time, but I didn’t feel like going back home just then. I changed weapons, just to kill time. Changing weapons is something I do every two or three days so that no weapon is around my person enough to pick up my aura. Dragaeran sorcery can’t identify auras, but Eastern witchcraft can, and should the Empire ever decide to employ a witch—

  “I’m an idiot, Loiosh.”

  “Yeah, boss. Me, too.”

  I finished changing weapons and made it home quickly.

  “Cawti!” I yelled.

  She was in the dining room, scratching Rocza’s chin. Rocza leapt up and began flying around the room with Loiosh, probably telling him about her day. Cawti stood up, looking at me quizzically. She was wearing trousers of Jhereg grey that fit low on her hips, and a grey jerkin with black embroidery. She glanced at me with an expression of remote inquiry, her head tilted to the side, her brows raised in that perfect face, surrounded by sorcery-black hair. I felt my pulse quicken in a way that I had been afraid it wouldn’t anymore.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I love you.”

  She closed her eyes then opened them again, not saying anything. I said, “Do you have the weapon?”

  “Weapon?”

  “The Easterner who was killed. Was the weapon left ther
e?”

  “Why, yes, I suppose someone has it.”

  “Get it.”

  “Why?”

  “I doubt whoever it was knows about witchcraft. I’ll bet I can pick up an aura.”

  Her eyes grew wide, then she nodded. “I’ll get it,” she said, and reached for her cloak.

  “Shall I go with you?”

  “No, I don’t . . .” Then, “Sure, why not?”

  Loiosh landed on my shoulder and Rocza landed on Cawti’s and we went down the stairs into the Adrilankha night. In some ways things were better, but she didn’t take my arm.

  Is this starting to depress you? Heh. Good. It depressed me. It’s much easier to deal with someone you only have to kill. As we left my area and began to cross over into some of the rougher neighborhoods, I hoped someone would jump me so I could work out some of what I was feeling.

  Our feet went clack clack to slightly differing rhythms, occasionally synchronizing, then falling apart. Sometimes I’d try to change my step to keep them together, but it didn’t do much. Our paces were our usual compromise, worked out long ago, between the shorter steps she was most comfortable with and my longer ones. We didn’t speak.

  You identify the Eastern section first by its smell. During the day the whole neighborhood is lousy with open-air cafes, and the cooking smells are different from anything the Dragaerans have. In the very early morning the bakeries begin to work; the aroma of fresh Eastern bread reaches out like tendrils to gradually take over the night smells. But the night smells, when the cafes are closed and the bakeries haven’t started, are the smells of rotting food and human and animal waste. At night the wind blows across the area, toward the sea, and the prevailing winds are from the slaughterhouses northwest of town. It’s as if only at night can the area’s true colors, to mix a metaphor, come to the surface.

  The buildings are almost invisible at night. Lamps or candles glowing in a few windows provide the only light, so the nature of the structures around you is hidden, yet the streets are so narrow that sometimes there is hardly room to walk between the buildings. There are places where doors in buildings opposite each other cannot be opened at the same time. At times you feel as if you were walking through a cave or in a jungle, and your boots tramp through garbage more often than on the hard-packed rutted dirt of the street.