by Steven Brust
“Cry up a storm, Boss.”
I got up and slowly and painfully took care of morning things. The plan for the day was, actually, to do nothing except to stay as safe as I could: there was nothing to do until and unless I got some information from Loiosh, or until someone made a move at me.
I had them bring me some food. There was klava—good klava—and some hen’s eggs partly boiled with salt, and bread with a luxurious amount of butter. They charged too much, but here and there were compensations.
Loiosh reported conversations that were only remarkable in their triviality—the best markets, who had become pregnant, whose uncle had taken sick. Sometimes he identified the voices as male, sometimes female, sometimes mixed. At one point, two women who spoke with an accent that Loiosh remembered as being from some Eastern kingdom got into a conversation that made me blush when Loiosh repeated it. And I don’t blush easy.
By the evening, I was starting to wonder if the whole thing were a put-up job—if someone knew I was listening and was staging the conversations for my benefit. But then, I reminded myself that most of these people worked eighteen hours a day or so, many of them at the slaughter houses, so I wouldn’t expect to hear anything of substance until the evening.
And, indeed, in the evening I started hearing things that were more interesting: Loiosh reported a male voice saying, “They should be arriving within the half hour, we should set the chairs up.”
I sent down for another meal to prepare myself; this one a whole fowl done in a sweet wine sauce. I don’t actually care much for sweet sauces, but it wasn’t bad.
“Pounding sounds, Boss. Doors. People coming in. Voices.”
“What are the voices saying, Loiosh?”
“No idea. They’re all talking at once. Greetings, I think.”
“Any Eastern accents?”
“One or two, maybe. It’s hard to say.”
“All right.”
About half an hour later he said, “They’re quieting down. Someone’s talking. Dragaeran, or at least no accent I can hear.”
“What’s he saying?”
“She. Blah blah blah the Empire blah blah blah Tirma blah blah blah organize blah blah—”
“Loiosh.”
“Boss, when she actually says anything, I’ll tell you, okay? This having voices in my head is really weird.”
“You should be used to it. I am.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Okay.”
About half an hour later, he said, “They’re going to be having some sort of meeting tomorrow.”
“How thrilling.”
“With an Imperial Representative.”
“Oh. If it turns out to be Desaniek, this will suddenly be too easy.”
“No idea who it is.”
“Guess I’d better find out.”
“They’re still talking, Boss. Something about meeting before the meeting with the Representative, to, I don’t know, I couldn’t hear. Something about unity.”
“Where’s the meeting?”
“Which?”
“Both.”
“The one with the Representative will be at Speaker’s Hall at the fifth hour of the afternoon. The earlier one will be noon, at the cottage.”
“A meeting before the meeting. Okay. Got it. I may have a bit of an idea, but I first need to make sure that it is Desaniek going to that meeting.”
“What if it isn’t?”
“Then I’ll—”
I didn’t have to answer the question, because a clap outside the door interrupted me.
“Who?”
“No one I know, Boss. Just one, though.”
I stirred myself. I had forgotten about the damned rib and sat up directly, instead of turning on my side first. I resolved not to do that again. I hoped I wasn’t going to have to defend myself, because I just wasn’t in any shape to. Nevertheless, I let a knife fall into my right hand, held it behind the door, and opened the door carefully.
My, my, my.
I didn’t recognize her, but I knew what she was. She had a face like a knife’s edge, hair swept back and tied, and wore black and gray and rings on every finger including both thumbs.
I stepped back. “Well,” I said. “This is unexpected. Please come in.”
“Vladimir Taltos?”
“Something like that,” I said. “And you are?”
“A messenger.” She made no move to come in; the hallway behind her was empty.
“I can guess from whom.”
“You have a deal with us,” she said. “We have a project working you know something about. If you interfere with the project, the deal is off.”
Then she turned and walked down the hall.
I shut the door and put the knife away.
“Well,” I said after a moment. “I guess I’ve been warned.”
“I guess so. What are you going to do?”
“Just what I was planning to do.”
“Now?”
“Might as well.”
Loiosh and Rocza flew out of the door ahead of me, and announced that things looked good. I made my way to the Palace. I still walked as if nothing hurt, and I still knew it wouldn’t make any difference. As we walked, Loiosh said, “Can I stop listening now?”
“Soon. Not yet.”
“It’s just more of the same, Boss.”
“Sorry. We’ll be done with this soon.”
Who would know? Well, the Empress, of course, and I’d try again to see her if I had to, but one doesn’t simply barge in on the Empress to get a simple question answered if one has any choice, so I took myself to the Dragon Wing to see if the temporary acting Warlord and Dragon Heir to the throne happened to have a spare moment. Start small, that’s what I always say.
I climbed the stairs to the tiny room that was almost becoming familiar—yea, Vlad Taltos, ex-assassin, ex–crime boss, wanted by both sides of the law (that last isn’t true, but it sounded good, didn’t it?), walked into the inner sanctum of Imperial law enforcement. I clapped.
“Who by the fecal matter of the Seven Wizards is it now and what do you want that can’t wait half an hour?” came the cheerful reply from within.
“It’s Vlad,” I said.
“Enter, then.” I did. “My day is now perfect,” she suggested.
“Who from the Empire is going to meet with that group of Easterners and Teckla?” As I’ve said, I’m big on small talk.
Her eyes narrowed and her lips pressed together. “Cawti?” she said.
“No. My own sources. Who will it be?”
“Why should I tell you?”
There were a number of reasons, but I cut to the simplest one. “If it’s Desaniek, she’s going to be assassinated there.”
That made an impression of some sort, but I couldn’t judge what it was. “It isn’t,” she said at last. I’m not sure if I felt relieved or disappointed. It was too pat, anyway. Norathar continued, “It’s Caltho.”
“Who is that?”
“Iorich. Desaniek’s chief investigator.”
“I see.” Then. “Oh.”
“Oh?”
“What would happen if he were killed at that meeting?”
She blinked. “At that meeting? By an Easterner or a Teckla?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t . . .” Her voice trailed off as she considered it. “It wouldn’t be good,” she said finally. “What are your reasons for thinking it will happen?”
“You know about the Jhereg, Left Hand, and Orca pressure on Zerika.”
“On Her Majesty,” she corrected absently.
“An honest investigation would be ugly, but would take away their leverage. An attempt on the part of rebel Teckla to stop the investigation would sabotage it, or at least delay it, and the pressure would be back on.”
She frowned. “I don’t know. That isn’t how the Jhereg operates.”
“The Left Hand does.” She started to speak but I cut her off. “I don’t know a lot about the
Left Hand, but I know how they operate, and it’s just like that. Not to mention the Orca.”
She nodded slowly. “Yes, I can see that. What do you suggest I do?”
“The obvious thing is to arrest the rebels.”
“And you know as well as I do why I can’t.”
“The Empress wouldn’t approve?”
“And for good reason: that sort of thing just stirs them up and makes the rest think they must be right. Your peasant is a peaceful, happy sort, normally, Vlad, and having a few malcontents around gives him someone to feel wiser than. Knock ten of those on the head, and now you have a thousand in their place. We don’t need that.”
I wasn’t entirely sure about the whole peaceful happy peasant thing, but I had to agree with the rest. “Cancel the meeting?”
“The same problem, only not quite as bad.”
“Yeah. Well, break up this deal with the Orca and the Left Hand? Leave them no reason to go to the trouble? They’re practical sorts, you know.”
“How do you propose doing that?”
“I don’t know. Ask nicely?”
“Can you be serious for two words?”
“Not without great effort.”
“Vlad—”
“Okay, I know how to do it. Maybe. I have to make some assumptions, and after learning just now that the target isn’t Desaniek, but—what’s his name?”
“Caltho.”
“Right. After learning that, I’m not so sure about my ability to make assumptions, but I’m going for it anyway.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Identify the assassin, and kill him.”
She drummed her fingers on her desk. Then, “All right,” she said. “Can I help?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve been threatened by the Left Hand. Or, rather, Cawti has.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And you’re going ahead with it?”
“You know her. Wouldn’t you?”
She nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll watch her.”
“She’ll need sorcerous protection above all.”
“I’m not an idiot, Vlad.”
“Sorry. It’s just—”
“I know. Anything else?”
I shook my head, stood, and took my leave.
“Boss, I will never, ever understand flightless people.”
All I had to do was find the assassin. Should be no problem. Just look for the shifty eyes. Heh.
If you’re going up against someone, it’s always best to assume he’s not as good as you, and a little better than you. You need to figure you’re better, because otherwise you start second-guessing yourself, and hesitating, and doing all sorts of other things that don’t help at all. And better, because if you underestimate some skill he has, it could be very embarrassing. It’s tricky doing both at once.
Put it this way: Could I disguise myself well enough that I couldn’t tell I was an assassin?
Easy.
So, how would I get myself to reveal me, in a crowded room? How crowded? I had no idea. It wasn’t that big a cottage; you couldn’t get more than twenty or thirty people in there.
I ate, and I thought, and I didn’t come up with anything better than suddenly pulling a knife and seeing if anyone reacted like he knew what he was doing. I didn’t much like it. Then it crossed my mind that perhaps it would be a sorcerous attack, and I liked it even less.
Well, all right. The assassin would be there, or not; the assassin would be a sorcerer, or not. When you’re playing Shereba, and you realize that the only way you can win is if your opposing knave is still in the deck, then you play as if it’s still in the deck. Therefore, the assassin would be there, and would not be a sorceress.
“Glad that’s settled.”
“Shut up.”
I did some more thinking, and came up with nothing else, and eventually I fell asleep.
When I woke up, I hurt a little less, but I still had no interest in even moving slowly; the idea of moving fast just wasn’t any fun at all.
“Boss, if you spot the assassin, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to say, ‘Pointy point, you’re the donkey.’ ”
“I probably don’t want to know, do I?”
“I’m just worried about the possibility he never played that as a kid. You don’t think about assassins ever being kids, you know?”
“Yeah, that’s just what was on my mind.”
I stood up, slowly and painfully. “What if I was beaten just for this? I mean, what if the whole point was to make it impossible for me to take out the assassin if I needed to?”
“Yeah, Boss. What if?”
I didn’t have an answer, so I slowly got dressed and ready, and then, Loiosh and Rocza scouting for me, I went down the stairs and out. I picked up some warm, crusty bread and smoky, crumbly goat cheese from a vendor outside the inn. I love warm bread more than a lot of things you’d think would be higher on the list, you know?
After I’d eaten, I made my way to the West Palace Market, which is a good place to go for the best ingredients, if you can make yourself get up that early in the morning. I wasn’t there for ingredients today, though. In the far southwestern corner of the market, behind a stall that sells the best truffles in White-crest is a ratty-looking permanent store that sells pre-rolled copper tubing, and nails, hammers, springs, and various tools for using the above. It’s run by a Tsalmoth named Liska who looks as old as Sethra is and scurries about at a furious pace, her back permanently bent and her eyes looking up from beneath hair so stringy she seems to have lost her noble’s point. She keeps her cash in a box beneath the stool she uses on the rare occasions when she sits to dicker with a customer, while the customer stands on the other side of a wooden plank set on two barrels; the plank is a light wood, well-polished, and carved with depictions of a tsalmoth in various odd poses.
“What do you want?” she said when I walked in.
“A knife,” I told her.
She scurried onto her stool. She knew me, but admitting it would, I guess, give me a bargaining advantage over her. Something like that. “What sort of knife?” she barked out.
“Nothing fancy; just something to whittle with.”
She gave me a look that indicated enough suspicion to prove she knew who I was. I looked all innocent and shit. She showed me a selection, and I ended up picking out a small clasp knife. I tested the edge because it would have looked funny not to, and made sure it opened and closed easily, gave her an imperial and told her to keep it, and headed back out.
“Okay, Boss. I can’t wait to see what you’re going to do with that.”
“It’s pretty small; I’ll most likely just lose it.”
I still had a couple of hours before the meeting was supposed to start. Not far from the West Palace Market is a hostel called the Inkstand for a reason that was explained to me once but I can’t remember; I think it was something historical. There’s an actor named Ginaasa who lives there from time to time, and with whom I’ve done business before. Since it was early in the morning, I expected to wake him up, and I expected him to be sober. I was right on both counts, but he took it in good grace when I clinked some coins. I left there a bit later with a cloth bag containing a blond wig and a neatly trimmed matching beard, a bit of glue, and a jar of stuff to lighten my complexion a bit.
That done, I still had the hard part: if it worked, what then? How was I going to manipulate events to get what I wanted, just in case that was a possibility?
“Boss, where are you going?”
“Huh? I don’t—oh, House of the Iorich, I guess.”
“You think he’ll know what to do?”
“I guess if we’re going to go into this, we ought to find out what is liable to happen to Aliera. Remember Aliera? She’s the one who got us involved in this?”
“Are you expecting gratitude?”
“No. I just know if it were me—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
We reached the house safely, and
I made the now-familiar trek to Perisil’s office and clapped. He peered out the door, then opened it. I went in.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” he asked me. He looked genuinely curious.
“Never mind.”
I took the chair opposite him and said, “I have something going that might do, um, something. I need to check it with you.”
He nodded. “Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to give me at least one or two more details than that if you want an intelligent comment.”
It took me a moment to realize he was jesting; I don’t know if that says something about him, or about me. I said, “All right, just this once. Here’s the situation as I see it, stop me if I’m wrong about something: The Jher—that is, certain groups are trying to pressure the Empress. The leverage they have is the scandal about Tirma, which is going to annoy a lot of the people who matter, although exactly why they care I couldn’t say.” He gave me a look, but didn’t interrupt.
I went on. “The Empress, after you and I started making trouble and kicking things up, reconsidered, and decided to have an official investigation into the events. There will be an effort to stop the investigation and cast blame at some idiot group of Teckla by assassinating Caltho.”
“Desaniek.”
“No, I was wrong about that. Her assistant, Caltho.”
“Hmmm. That would work too.”
“Even better, because it will happen at a public meeting where he is supposed to answer questions about what is happening and why.”
“I see.”
“All right, so, if I manage to stop the assassination, does that give us any leverage to get Aliera released?”
He was quiet for a moment, then he said, “Stop it how?”
“By killing the assassin before he can kill Caltho.”
He was quiet for a bit longer, then. “It depends on a number of things. How are you. . . where. . .” His voice trailed off and he looked uncomfortable. I’d never seen him look uncomfortable before; I think I enjoyed it.
“The way I see it going down, I’ll take him before he ever gets to the meeting.”
“Then, excuse me, how will anyone know?”
“No one will know.”
“Then I don’t see how it will have any effect on our case.”
“Uh. Yeah, there’s that. Okay, what if I made it more dramatic?”
