The Book of Taltos

by Steven Brust

  “I see.”

  Another turn of the stairs. “How much farther up are we going, Lord Morrolan?”

  “Not far, I think. Are you getting tired?”

  “A bit. But never mind.” He’d said “I think.” I pondered that and said, “So, are you a regular visitor to this place?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Sethra and I see each other often.”

  That set me a pretty mystery, with which I was able to occupy myself for another turn or two of that endless stairway. Why was he unsure of the length of the stair if he was often at Dzur Mountain? Obviously because he didn’t usually come this way. We passed a heavy wooden door on the left side but didn’t stop. Why was he coming this way now? In order to tire me out, or else to size me up, or both.

  This realization, which ought to have put me more on guard, actually did nothing except make me more angry. But, with some difficulty, I kept my voice even as I went back to an earlier subject of conversation.

  “Lord Morrolan, I think I can understand how it was that you knew Quion would come to Dzur Mountain with the gold.”

  “I am pleased for you.”

  “But what I don’t understand is how you knew he was going to grab the money in the first place.”

  “Oh, that part was easy. You see, I am something of a witch. As are you, I believe.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, then, as you know, with witchcraft it is possible to plant an idea in someone’s head. We let it occur to him that it would be a good and safe thing to do, and he did it.”

  “You bastard!” This burst out of me before I could stop it. I regretted it at once, but it was too late.

  Morrolan stopped and turned toward me. His hand rested easily on the hilt of that sword. He looked down at me, and the expression on his face was not pleasant. He said, “I beg your pardon?”

  I watched his eyes and didn’t answer. I allowed my shoulders to relax and mentally fingered my nearest weapon, a stiletto with a four-and-one-eighth-inch blade, located in my left sleeve and set to draw with my right hand. My best chance was to lunge for his throat. I estimated my chance of killing him to be fairly good if I drew first.

  On the other hand, looking at the way he stood—the lack of tension in his neck, shoulders, and arms, and the balanced power of his stance—I guessed that he had very good odds of giving me a cut as I nailed him. And, with a Morganti blade, one cut would do the job.

  “Let me put it this way,” I said. “If you mess with one of my people again, I’m going to cut your heart out.” I let my breathing relax and watched him.

  “Are you really,” he said, making it more a statement than a question. His face took on a sardonic expression, and with no warning he took a step backward, up another step. Damn, he was fast! His blade wasn’t yet drawn, but now I’d have to either try to draw my rapier or throw the knife. Killing someone with a thrown knife, even if you’re as good as I am, is more a matter of chance than skill.

  I said nothing, waiting for him to draw. He also waited. His knees were slightly bent and his balance was perfect, left foot on the higher stair, right hand on the hilt of that weapon. I felt the coolness of the dagger’s hilt press against my left wrist and decided it was my only chance. My rapier may as well have been back home; he was faster than me. I continued to wait.

  Finally, he smirked and bowed slightly. “All right, my lord Jhereg, we’ll settle this later.” He presented his back to me and continued up the stairs. The idea of nailing him came and went. Even if I got away with it, that would leave me in Dzur Mountain, alone except for a very irate Sethra Lavode, who could probably prevent me from teleporting out.

  Besides, there was still the matter of Quion and two thousand gold imperials.

  I took a helping of nonchalant and followed him. My knees were steady, which took all of my concentration for the next few moments. We passed a couple more doors on the left, then emerged into a narrow hallway. We followed the hallway through an arch, after which it widened. The walls were black and unadorned save by torches. I didn’t recognize the stone here, but it wasn’t obsidian, in any case. It was rough and seemed to absorb light. Where the black at Morrolan’s keep seemed to work hard to be ominous, the black at Dzur Mountain was naturally gloomy and hinted, almost as an aside, at insidious power and dark strength.

  Yes, I know that to a Dragaeran black means sorcery. But to me black is gloomy. Dragaerans are warped; I’ve said so before.

  I noted in passing that the torches were placed seventeen feet apart.

  Morrolan opened a door, behind which was a tight spiral staircase made of iron. I followed him up into a yet wider hall that seemed to slope upward, and that held more lamps and more ornate doorways. The walls were still black.

  At one point I said, “There was no better way of getting me here?”

  He said, “We could have kidnaped you.”

  He stopped before a large wooden door, upon which a crouching dzur was pictured. Morrolan pushed the door and it swung open.

  The room was thirty feet on a side. Candles and torches provided the light. The chairs looked comfortable. All done in black. I’ve stated my opinion on that. Shadows flickered back and forth, making it hard to pick out objects . . .

  . . . Someone was in one of the chairs. I took a wild guess as to who she might be. I stared at her. No one moved. She was gaunt, with a smooth, ageless aquiline face with hollowed-out cheeks, framed by straight hair that was black black black. Gods, but I was growing tired of black.

  Perhaps she would have looked appealing to a Dragaeran, I don’t know. She was very pale; in fact, it was startling that I hadn’t seen her at once, there was such a contrast between her face and her surroundings. She wore black as well, of course. Her gown had high lace ruffles, coming to her chin. Below it, at her breast, was a large ruby. Her hands were long, and seemed even longer since her nails were done to a point. On the middle finger of her left hand was a ring that held what I think was a very large emerald. She stared at me with eyes that were deep and bright and old.

  She stood up, and I saw that there was one splash of blue at her side, which I recognized as a jewel on the hilt of a dagger. Then I felt the dagger and knew it for at least as powerful a weapon as Morrolan’s sword. As she stood, it vanished in a swirl of her cloak, which made her disappear entirely except for the dead white of her face, with those eyes gleaming at me like a wolf’s.

  I guess she’d decided to make me feel at home, because as she stood there the room brightened. That was when I saw, on the floor in front of me, face up, the lifeless body of Quion. His throat had been cut and the red of his blood was almost invisible against the black carpet.

  “Welcome,” she said in a voice that rolled from her tongue, as smooth as glass and as soft as satin. “I am Sethra.”

  No shit.

  AMONG THE CUSTOMS PECULIAR to Easterners is the one involving the anniversary of one’s birth. To the Easterners, this is a day for the person born to celebrate, rather than for him to honor and thank those who brought him into the world.

  I spent my tenth birthday with my grandfather, mostly watching him work and enjoying it. I asked him questions whenever there wasn’t a customer in the place, and learned about the three types of love potions, which herbs the witch should grow himself instead of buying, which incense should be used for which sorts of spells, why to make certain there are no mirrors or reflective surfaces nearby when doing magic, how to ensure an easy labor, cure cramps and headaches, prevent infection, and where to find spell books along with some idea of how to tell worthwhile spells from nonsense.

  When he closed up shop, he said, “Come on back, Vladimir. Sit down.” I went into his living area and sat in a big comfortable chair. He pulled up another chair and sat facing me. His cat, Ambrus, jumped onto his shoulder. I could hear it purring.

  “Look at me, Vladimir.” I did, wondering. He said, “Sink back into the chair now. Pretend you grow heavy, yes? Feel that you are getting heavy, a
nd joining with the chair now. Can you do this? Keep looking at my face now, Vladimir. Think of me. Close your eyes. Try to still see me, even though your eyes are not open. Can you do this? Can you feel warm, now? Don’t speak yet. Feel that you float in water, and you are warm. Think of my voice, see how it fills your head? Listen to how my voice rings in your head. Listen to nothing else. My voice is everything, all you know. Now, tell me this: How old are you?”

  That puzzled me a little; I mean, did he think I’d fallen asleep, or what? I tried to answer him and was surprised at the effort it took. But I finally said, “Ten,” and my eyes snapped open. My grandfather was smiling. He didn’t say anything, because he didn’t have to. As I’d said it, I had realized that the word “ten” had been the first word actually spoken aloud in the room for some few moments.

  I STEPPED OVER THE body as carefully as I could because it would have been embarrassing to slip. The Dark Lady of Dzur Mountain indicated a chair for me. I sat in another one only partly to be contrary—the one I chose wasn’t as soft, and thus easier to get out of quickly. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I was, like, scared.

  And I’ll tell you another thing that surprised me: I felt bad about Quion. Sure, I’d been planning to kill him as soon as I caught up with him, but seeing him lying there dead like that, I don’t know . . . I remembered how he’d been when he’d pleaded with me to let him work, and how he’d stopped gambling and all that, and it didn’t seem as important that he’d stabbed me in the back by running off with my money. I suppose the fact that Morrolan had set him up for it made some difference.

  But yeah, I was scared; I was also mad as a dzur in a chreotha net.

  The Lord Morrolan sat facing me, working his chin and jaw. When I do that it means I’m nervous. I was inclined to think it meant something else in Morrolan, but I couldn’t say what. A servant came in, dressed in black livery with a dragon’s head on the left breast. I wondered what sort of man would be a servant to Sethra Lavode. From the roundness of his eyes and fullness of his face, I would have guessed him to be a Tsalmoth. He walked with his face cast down and his eyes squinting out from beneath tufts of hair sticking out from his brows. He seemed old. His tongue kept flicking out of his mouth, and I wondered if he were of sound mind. There was just the slightest bend to his waist. His walk was mostly a shuffle.

  He presented us with aperitif glasses half filled with something the color of maple floors. He somehow managed to step over the body without appearing to notice it. He served me first, then Morrolan, then Sethra. His hands were splotched with white and shook with age. After serving us, still holding the tray, he stood behind Sethra and to her left, his eyes flicking around the room, never resting. His shoulders seemed permanently hunched. I wondered if he coordinated his eye motions with his tongue, but I didn’t take the time to check. The drink turned out to be a liqueur that was sweet and tasted just a little like fresh mint.

  I didn’t want to stare at Sethra or Morrolan, so I found myself staring at Quion’s body. I don’t know about you, but I’m not used to having a quiet, social drink with a corpse on the floor. I wasn’t sure what appropriate behavior was. After a couple of sips, however, I was relieved of the worry by Sethra taking charge. She whispered to the servant and put a purse on his tray. He shuffled over and, making eye contact with everything in the room except my face, delivered the purse to me.

  Sethra Lavode said, “We had cause to borrow some of your funds.”

  How nice.

  I chewed on the inside of my lip and tried to think about things that would distract me before I lost my temper completely and got myself killed. I hefted the bag while the servant bowed and returned to his place behind Sethra. On reflection, I decided that the hunching of his shoulders occurred when he stopped; rather like a runner sets himself to spring off the starting line. I signaled to him. He hesitated, glanced at his mistress, blinked about twelve times, and returned to me.

  “Hold out the tray,” I told him. He did, still not looking at me, and I slowly counted out fifteen hundred gold imperials in fifties and tens. “Give this to the Lady,” I said. His mouth worked for just an instant, as if he had to think about it, and I noticed that he was missing some teeth. But then he brought the tray over to her. The entire scenario felt like a poorly blocked play.

  Sethra stared at me. I held her gaze. She said, “This is . . . ?”

  “Standard rates for the job you did,” I explained, glancing at the body. “You do good—”

  At which point the tray with the money went flying as Sethra Lavode struck it. She stood and her hand went to the hilt of her weapon. Morrolan also stood, and I swear he growled. I widened my eyes and did my innocent inquiring act, though my pulse was racing from that delicious mix of anger and fear that usually means someone is about to become damaged.

  But Sethra stopped and raised her hand, which stopped Morrolan. Some portion of a smile came to Sethra’s lips and she barely nodded. She sat down and looked a look at Morrolan. He also sat down, giving me a glare that said “That’s another one.” The servant went about methodically picking up the gold and putting it back on the tray. It took him quite a while. I hoped he’d be able to palm some of it.

  Sethra said, “All right, Jhereg. You’ve made your point. Can we get down to business now?”

  Business. Right.

  I cleared my throat. I said, “You wanted to talk business. You want to buy a title in the Jhereg? Sure, I can set that up. Or maybe you want to buy into—”

  “Enough,” said Morrolan.

  I’ll admit it: Push me far enough and anger overcomes self-preservation. I said, “Shove it, Dragonlord. I don’t know what ‘business’ you think you have with me, but you have interfered with my work, murdered my employee, tricked me, and threatened me. Now you want to talk business? Shit. Talk away.” I sat back, crossed my legs, and folded my arms.

  They exchanged glances for a moment. Perhaps they were communicating psionically, perhaps only by expression. After a minute or so I sipped some more liqueur. The servant finished gathering the spilled money onto the tray. He started to offer it to Sethra again, but she glared at him. He gave some sort of grimace of resignation and set it down on a nearby table.

  Sethra turned to me and said, “I don’t know what to say. We thought you’d be pleased that we had killed this man and saved you the trouble—”

  “Saved me the trouble? Who says I was going to kill him?” Well, sure, I was, but I wasn’t going to admit to these two, was I? “And I wouldn’t have needed to find him if you two hadn’t—”

  “Lord Taltos, please,” said Sethra. She seemed genuinely contrite, and I guess the shock of that realization stopped me as much as her words. She said, “I assure you that all we did was help him choose the time for his theft. Morrolan’s spell wouldn’t have worked if he hadn’t been planning to steal from you anyway.” She paused, glanced at Morrolan, and shrugged. “We knew you to be a Jhereg as well as an Easterner, and had been expecting you to respond as a Jhereg only. Most of those in your House would have been happy to discuss a business deal no matter how they were brought into it. It seems we don’t know Easterners. We have erred. We are sorry.”

  I bit my lip and thought about it. I would have felt better if Morrolan had expressed an apology, but there’s something to be said for extracting one from the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain, isn’t there? All right, I’ll be honest. I still don’t know if she was making all that up as she went along or if she was telling the truth, but believing her salved my pride a little. It allowed me to continue talking to them, at any rate.

  I said, “Would you mind explaining to me why you went through all this in the first place?”

  Sethra said, “Very well, then. Tell me this: Can you think of any other way we could have gotten you here?”

  “Paying me would have worked.”

  “Would it have?”

  I reflected. No, I suppose if they’d offered me enough to convince me to come, it would have
just made me suspicious. I said, “If you’d wanted to see me, you could have come to me,” I smirked. “The door to my office—”

  “It is impossible for me to leave Dzur Mountain at the moment.”

  I gestured toward Morrolan. “And him?”

  “I wanted to see you myself.” She smiled a little. “Which is just as well, since I might have had some trouble convincing him to walk into a Jhereg’s place of business.”

  Morrolan snorted. I said, “All right, I’m convinced that you’re clever.” I felt silent, but they seemed to be waiting for me to continue. What was there to say? I felt my jaw clenching with anger that hadn’t yet died down. But, as I said, my best chance of getting out of there alive was cooperation. If they wanted me for something, they at least weren’t going to kill me out of hand. I let out my breath and said, “Business, then. You have business in mind. Tell me about it.”

  “Yes.” She sent Morrolan a glance that was impossible to read, then turned back to me. “There is a thing we’d like you to do.”

  I waited.

  She said, “This is going to take some explanation.”

  DURING MY ENTIRE TENTH year it was almost impossible to keep me away from my grandfather’s. I felt my father’s growing dislike of this, and ignored it. Noish-pa was delighted at my interest in witchcraft. He taught me to draw things that I only saw in his mind, and gave me tours of his memories of his homeland. I still remember how it felt to see clear blue sky, with white puffy clouds and a sun so bright I couldn’t look directly at it, even through the eyes of his memory. And I remember the stars as vividly as if I were there. And the mountains, and the rivers.

  Finally my father, in an effort to distract me, hired a sorcerer to teach me. He was a snide young Jhegaala whom I hated and who didn’t like me, but he taught me anyway and I learned anyway. I hate to think of what that cost my father. It was interesting, and I did learn something, but I resented it, so I didn’t work as hard as I could have. In fact, I think I was working not to like it. But, on the other hand, I enjoyed the closeness with my grandfather much more than I enjoyed making pretty flashing lights in the palm of my hand.