Jhegaala (Vlad Taltos)

by Steven Brust

  “Yeah. Which reminds me; I need to arrange a fast exit from this place once my business is finished.”

  “And that’s the second. Any idea how to go about it?”

  “I think I’d like to speak with Father Noij.”

  “Huh?”

  “He can do it, and he will.”

  “Uh, sure, Boss. I’ll fly right out and get him.”

  I chuckled. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  “Boss, why won’t you just tell me what happened?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You don’t want to tell me, do you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He said, “They took you, didn’t they?”

  I stared up at the ceiling for a long time. Then I nodded. “I had thought someone was playing me,” I said. “I didn’t realize that they were all playing me.”

  “Oh. Working together?”

  “No. That’s the thing. On their own, independently. That’s what threw me. But the effect was as if they were working together.”

  After that he let me alone for a while. He knew I’d have to tell him about it eventually, and he can be an understanding little bastard on occasion.

  Everything I’d said was true, and I was confident of all my conclusions, and the plan that was formulating in my head seemed sound. But there was still that one factor that I couldn’t control, couldn’t see, couldn’t anticipate, and certainly couldn’t ignore: The Jhereg now knew where I was. Yes, I still felt a fair bit of confidence in all those things I’d said: A Dragaeran would stand out, and a Morganti weapon would most certainly stand out. But what I hadn’t said was: Give them enough time, and they’ll find a way around those problems. They’re tenacious, they’re brutal, and when they have to be, they’re creative. I know, I was one.

  Once a fellow I was after surrounded himself with such solid protection that bribing them all would have cost more than I was being paid for the job. So I hired an actor to play a legitimate Chreotha merchant, hired another to play a low-level boss from Candletown, a few others to play flunkies and lackeys, and spent eleven weeks constructing a phony business deal for the guy just to get him to a meeting—no bodyguards permitted, you understand the need for secrecy—at which I turned out to be the only one doing any business. The whole story—why he needed to go, how everything played out—is interesting, and I may tell it someday. It was elaborate, elegant, and, if I may say so (after some initial foul-ups and few scary moments here and there), perfect.

  What it wasn’t was unique.

  My point is this: Give the Jhereg enough time, and they will find a way to nail you. Was I giving them too much time? I didn’t think so.

  I reviewed what I knew yet again, and finally said, “Okay, let’s do this.”

  “Now?”

  “Now. Think you could manage to open my pack and bring me something out of it? It should be in the box, or next to it.”

  “Maybe, Boss. I can try. As long as you promise not to make any opposable thumb comments if I fail.”

  “None for a week, Loiosh, either way.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Do you know the little bottle that I keep tincture of lithandrial in?”

  “Huh? Sure, Boss. Since I don’t think you’ll be satisfied giving anyone the nettles, I assume you have the backache. But shouldn’t you ask the physicker—”

  “Loiosh, at this point I wouldn’t even notice the backache if I had it. Just get the thing, if you can.”

  He could, and presently I was holding it, and I learned that opening a tightly corked bottle is much more difficult than feeding yourself. I eventually got it open.

  “Now I need a cloth of some kind.”

  He didn’t ask questions, just dug in the box until he found an old pair of—until he found some cloth. I couldn’t be picky at that point. I poured a little dab on the cloth and applied it as best I could, wiping the excess carefully from my mustache.

  “Dammit, Loiosh. I wish I had a glass. How does it look?”

  “Compared to what?”

  “Never mind. It’ll have to do. Get rid of this cloth. Put it back in the box and bury it.”

  “With pleasure.”

  “And never mind the wisecracks.”

  I lay back on the bed and spent some time recovering my breath and remembering not to lick my lips. “Can you put the bottle back in the box tool?”

  “Boss, have you gone nuts?”

  “Do not mock the afflicted, Loiosh. Not only am I a wreck, but as you can see, I’ve just been attacked by a witch.”

  “You’ve—”

  “See? Red lips? Witch’s mark?”

  “Uh, who are you trying to convince?”

  “Sit back and wait. All will be made clear.”

  When Meehayi came in with my lunch, I was lying on the bed, either barely breathing, or not breathing at all. If you’re curious, you breathe only through your nose, into your chest, quick short breaths; and you can do it forever, though it takes some practice to just breathe into your upper chest. Oh, and my lips, of course, had a pronounced reddish tinge.

  Meehayi dropped the bowl of stew (which was, as far as Loiosh and Rocza were concerned, either an unexpected bonus, or the only value the plan had in the first place), gave a high-pitched sort of scream, and bolted out the door.

  I relaxed and waited off-stage for the next act in which I would be needed, like the ubiquitous merchant in a mannerist murder comedy. What I liked about this was that, if it didn’t work, there was no risk—what had I done? Why, I’d taken a backache remedy and then had a nap; everything else had just been an over-reaction by a superstitious peasant boy.

  Unless, by some fluke, Orbahn happened to hear about it too soon, and figured out it was a fake; in that case I was dead meat. But you need to accept some risks. It was much more likely that he’d hear about it later, and either manage to put only part of it together, or else figure out the whole thing and not care. Either way, I was good.

  The first to arrive was Aybrahmis, with a look of mixed anxiety and rage on his features. That was odd, I have to admit. I’d expected him to show up; he was, after all, a professional; I hadn’t expected him to take it personally.

  The first thing he did was hold a looking glass to my lips. Through lidded eyes, I decided I hadn’t done a half-bad job. I said, “Physicker?” My voice was weak, pitiful, a man just barely on this side of the Great Night. Heh. I missed my calling. I wonder if Miersen would cast me as First Student.

  “Lord Merss!” he said. “I thought you—are you all right?”

  “What… happened?” I managed to whisper through my barely moving lips.

  “What happened?” he directed back at me.

  “I don’t…”

  “Lord Merss?”

  I opened my eyes again. “I was lying here. Then I, I couldn’t breathe. That’s all I remember.”

  Fenarian, my grandfather told me, is a language rich in curses that don’t translate well. Yes, indeed it is.

  I managed, “What…?”

  “Witchcraft,” he said grimly. “Someone made an attempt on your life.”

  I shook my head. “Can’t. Immune. Natural—”

  “It’s witchcraft,” he said firmly.

  If you want to convince someone of something that is related to his field, but still outside it, first, plant the suspicion in his mind, then deny it is a possibility for an unconvincing reason.

  “Boss? You know this won’t hold up to scrutiny by a witch.”

  “I know. That’s the beauty of it.”

  The witch he’d been working with (I never did catch his name) came in around then, and started to examine me, but Aybrahmis started in on him before he had the chance, glaring and hissing whispers as he took him by the arm and spoke to him in a corner. The witch kept shaking his head and making gestures of denial with his arms.

  He attempted twice more to examine me, but Aybrahmis wasn’t letting him near. Reasonable: It looked like
the Coven had just tried to kill me. It appeared that the disagreement might get physical. My money was on the witch, but my concern was that they not fall on top of the sick guy.

  I admit I felt a tiny bit sorry for the poor witch; he’d done his best to heal me, after all. But those infusions had tasted terrible, so I didn’t feel all that bad.

  Besides, I didn’t have a lot of room in me for feeling anything at that point—that is, anything except the need to get the job done and be away from there.

  The witch left, saying loudly that he would speak with his superiors, and the physicker would hear from them. And there went the leg.

  Aybrahmis came back, and listened to my chest with a device that fitted into his ears and made him look like an elephant. He said, “How are you feeling?”

  “Better,” I managed weakly. “Breathing … easier.”

  He nodded. “Your immunity is a resistance, not a full immunity, as such things usually are,” he explained. I love it when they get pedantic about things they don’t know. “And this time,” he added, “it saved your life. They attempted to strangle you from a distance. I am going now to see to it that no such attempt is made again.”

  I moaned and tried a couple of times to speak, eventually succeeded. “In case you … fail.”

  “Hmm? Yes?”

  “Wish to see … Father Noij.”

  He gave me an understanding nod. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll have him sent for.”

  When he had left, Loiosh said, “Well, Boss, if that was an elaborate method to see the priest, it worked, but wouldn’t it have been easier—”

  “Wait and see,” I told him.

  “You think this will make the Count attack the Coven?”

  “Not exactly. It’s a bit more, ah, complex than that.”

  Aybrahmis was as good as his word: Father Noij appeared in less than half an hour. His expression was reserved and distant; he looked the way you’d look if you were to offer condolences to a dying or possibly dying man. He came up to the bed, and I don’t know what he was about to say, because I cut it off with, “In the sacred name of Verra, the Demon Goddess who owns my soul according to the ancient pacts, I demand sanctuary.”

  When he could talk again, he said, “I thought—”

  “Yeah. I’m not actually dying, as it were. Just a simple misunderstanding. Well?”

  “Sanctuary?”

  “That’s right.”

  He looked uncomfortable. “My home is small, but—”

  “But I wouldn’t last sixty hours in it. And you’d probably go down with me, not that that takes up a big part in my calculations, to be honest.”

  “Then—”

  “I need to get out of town, out of the county, to a safe place, and I need you to arrange it. In secrecy. Because, I swear to you in Verra’s name, if word gets to the right ears that you even know where I am, they will kill you on the way to getting to me. And don’t try to get it to them, because you don’t have a clue who they are. And if you even think of crossing me, I will kill you, and do not for a minute imagine that I can’t. If I am dead, my jhereg will eat your corpse. Are you clear on this?”

  His lips worked, then he nodded. “Threats are not necessary, Lord Merss. You have invoked sanctuary in the name of the Goddess”—he made a sign here with his hand; maybe it’s a priest thing—“and that is sufficient. Of course I will aid you with everything in my power. The first question is, where should you go?”

  “Fenario.”

  “The city?”

  “Hardest place for them to find me, even if they track me down.”

  He nodded. “Very well. Now, for getting you there—”

  “A boat?”

  “Yes, exactly. I can arrange that. When—”

  “Tonight.”

  “Yes!”

  “Shut up.”

  “Then all that remains is deciding how to get you out of here.”

  “Meehayi will help. Ask him.”

  He nodded. “All right. When shall we say?”

  “Two hours after sunset.”

  “Agreed. I will be here with Meehayi, and the boat will be ready.”

  “Look at me, Father Noij.”

  He did. “Yes?”

  “Look me in the eyes, and swear by the Demon Goddess that you will not betray me.”

  He looked like he was trying to decide if he should get angry, but things were moving too fast for him. After a moment to salve his pride with a scowl (not bad, for an amateur), he said, “I swear by name of Verra, the Demon Goddess, that I will carry out our agreement, and I will not betray you, or may the Goddess take vengeance upon my immortal soul.” Then he nodded to me. “I trust that will do?”

  “Good enough,” I said.

  He sniffed and left; Meehayi came in before the door had time to close. “Lord Merss! Are you—?”

  “Vlad,” I told him. And, “I’m all right,” I added, with only a hint of weakness in my voice so I wouldn’t have to answer any embarrassing questions just then.

  He fussed over me and puttered around the room looking for something to do, then remembered the stew, and asked if I could eat. I allowed as to how I could, so he got me food, and then busied himself cleaning up the mess on the floor. Loiosh and Rocza hadn’t left much for him to do. I announced I needed to rest, and he didn’t like the idea of leaving, but finally did.

  When he had gone, Loiosh said, “It isn’t that I’m not pleased, Boss, but do you trust him?”

  “Meehayi?”

  “The priest.”

  “Oh. Yes, I trust him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not giving him enough time to come up with a justification for betraying his oath.”

  “You’re sure that will work?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you lying?”

  “I prefer to call it exaggerating.”

  “Well, if anything does go wrong, Rocza and I—”

  “Won’t be there.”

  “Um, what?”

  “I haven’t explained your part in all of this.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “You’re going to love it.”

  “Are you lying?”

  “I prefer to call it irony.”

  “All right, let’s have it.”

  “Second, you’ll be following Orbahn after he bolts.”

  “Uh, what’s first?”

  “You’re going to watch it happen, so I can enjoy it.”

  “Boss, is this going to work?”

  “You’ll know when I do.”

  “What if it doesn’t?”

  “Then I come back and try something else.”

  “Boss—”

  “Let’s not worry about the what-ifs right now, all right? It’s time for Rocza to do her part so she can be back here while you’re doing yours, or at least soon after. She’ll be all right?”

  He didn’t answer me, but she stood and flew out the window like she knew what she was about. In three minutes, Loiosh told me Orbahn had been found, right in the Pointy Hat, or Inchay’s if you prefer, right where I’d first met him. As long as no one noticed her little head peeking through a corner of the window, we wouldn’t be losing him. And he didn’t, at least as far as she could tell, seem to be upset, alarmed, or have any idea of what was about to happen.

  Good.

  “All right, Boss. When should I leave?”

  “Now. Things should be starting any time. As soon as you pick up Orbahn, Rocza can come back here, as we agreed. And if everything works perfectly, you might even be back before they come to get me.”

  “When was the last time everything worked perfectly?”

  “Go.”

  He went.

  I went over things in my head, trying to see if I’d missed anything, if there were big holes in the plan, or little things that might improve the odds. I couldn’t come up with anything, and there probably wouldn’t have been anything I could do about it if I did.

  For
now, it was all working.

  We would see. Very soon.

  “Okay, Boss. I’m there.”

  “You know what to do.”

  “Yeah, Boss. Ready when you are.”

  “Go,” I said.

  I relaxed, closed my eyes, and opened my mind to him.

  Presently, there came visions.

  INTERLUDE

  I let the breeze take me up over the top, and there is a perch—too narrow to let my feet flatten, but too wide for a comfortable grip. It hurts, but there I stay and watch and wait. Food on four legs walks by below me, as do people, young and old, and I wait—

  This is where it will happen, if it happens. Here, right here. It will or it won’t; I will it to will.

  —it happens quickly; I leave my perch and make a slow circle, so he/I can see better. Fighting men—

  Soldiers

  —too many to count—

  Thirty or thirty five

  —moving around all over—

  Some covering the rear; the captain seems cold and efficient, knows his stuff

  —door knocked in, things flying, wood chips everywhere, nice! A few people gather to watch—

  Pouring in neatly and efficiently; not a lot of room for mistakes. Good.

  —no door, may as well see if I can fly in and watch the fun—

  “Careful!”

  —hee, yeah, good times! No blood, though, just—

  Yes, make them lie on the floor. I’d rather kill them all, but I’m just in that kind of mood.

  —lots of shouting and yelling—

  Threats of repercussions, but I wish them luck with that. Unless the witches take a hand, and they’ll have their own problems soon.

  —and there’s the one, arms held behind him, ohhhh, fangs deep, deep in—

  “No!”

  —not protesting, wants to tear and bite and rage, know that feeling, me too—

  Yeah, the bastard is glaring. Poor son-of-a-bitch. That’s right, grit your teeth and demand to see the Count. See the Count? You want to see the Count? I am Vladimir, Count of Szurke by the grace of Her Imperial Majesty Zerika the Fourth; you can see me, you low-life son of a thrice-poxed street whore. We’ll see how that works out for you.

  —now, finally exchanging words with a man, harsh words, nearly spitting—

  The captain is doing his job—well, okay, my job—he ignores the complaints and gives the order for Chayoor to be taken to the manor—