by Steven Brust
"He knows what was taken: one greatsword, very large, not terribly potent. Plain cross-guard with brass knobs, leather grips, sharp on one edge and part of the other, enough of a point for stabbing."
I tried to call up a memory of that weapon, failed, but Loiosh managed—he put the picture into my mind. I saw it leaning against a wall along with several cousins. I hadn't noticed it; it had been utterly undistinctive and, for a Morganti blade, not even very well constructed.
"So, just as a guess, Kragar, I'd say it was a test, rather than that blade they were after. What do you think?"
"Possible. Or there's something about it we don't know. History, enchantments, something like that."
"Could be that, too. Any suggestions about what we do next?"
"You could always hire Kiera to steal it back."
"Letting whoever it is know that we know, for which we'd get a probably useless weapon. Any useful suggestions?"
"Whatever we do, we have to find whoever it was who took it. I presume Daymar will be able to find out."
"Right. See to it."
"Me?"
"Yes. I designate you Speaker to Daymar."
"Thank you so much."
"I pride myself on knowing my subordinates and matching tasks to their skills."
"Don't start, Vlad."
There was actually a bit of truth in that remark—though only a bit. Since I'd been in control of the area, one of the things I was learning was what I could delegate and what I had to do myself. In fact, a little later I ran into a situation where—but never mind. That's another story.
Kragar left; I stared off into space. Loiosh said, "You worried, Boss?"
"I'm a worrier, chum."
Unfortunately, there was nothing much to do that day, so I got to be pensive. I wanted to get up and pace, wander around the office, sit back down, and do all the things one does when one is nervous. But it's just no damn good letting your subordinates think you're easy to shake, so I sat at my desk, cooked some meals in my mind, remembered past lovers, and exchanged banter with Loiosh.
Lunchtime was a relief. I went to an Eastern place run by a woman named Tserchi and had roasted duckling in a sour cherry sauce garnished with celery root and served with a pan-fried garlic bread that wasn't as good as Noish-pa made but was perfectly edible. I tried to linger over the food, which of course made me eat faster. Tserchi joined me after the meal. I had a sorbet for dessert along with an orange liqueur and the pleasure of hearing her complain about how much she had to pay for ice. I was glad she was there, because I don't like eating alone. I made it back to the office and Kragar was waiting for me.
I noticed his cloak when I returned, so I knew he was there. I sat down at my desk and tried not to look like I was waiting for him.
If you're getting the impression that I'd built this thing up into something far more important than it probably was, well, I told myself the same thing. The fact that I turned out to be right might make me seem prescient. I don't know. I've been wrong about such things, too, but those occasions don't make for interesting stories.
"Okay, Vlad, I've got it," Kragar told me.
"Took you long enough," I said, just because I was irritated.
"Uh huh. And suppose I just walked in and gave you a name. What would you say?"
I'd have told him to go find out about the guy, of course, and probably have made some sarcastic remark about his failure to have already done so. Sometimes you have to admit defeat.
"Okay," I said. "Good work."
"Thanks."
"Sit down and let's hear it."
Melestav stuck his head in right then and said, "Kragar? I found that map."
"Thanks. Bring it in, please."
We're always polite to each other around the office.
I bit back any questions that Kragar would feel smug about answering, and waited. I shuffled paperweights and writing gear off to the side of my desk while Kragar unrolled a map that almost covered it. The map seemed fairly recent, and had the peculiar mix of sharp and fuzzy areas that denotes a psiprint; most of it, however, was very clean and distinct, indicating a skilled and careful artist. I recognized the region at once because Dzur Mountain was marked near the left-hand border, and I recognized the Barnsnake River two-thirds of the way toward the right, which meant the markings on the right border were the foothills of the Eastern Mountains.
Kragar pointed to an area a little above and to the right of Dzur Mountain. "Fornia County," he said, tracing an area that ran almost all the way to the edge of the map.
"Never heard of it."
"Oh, well, never mind, then."
"Get on with it."
"Melestav is looking for a more detailed map, just in case we need it. But that's where the weapon went."
"And what do you know of Fornia? Count or Countess?"
"Count. Fornia e'Lanya. Dragonlord, of course. And a neighbor of Sethra Lavode."
"I wonder who borrows sugar from whom?"
"Huh?"
"Never mind. Eastern custom."
"The name 'Fornia' comes from the old language of the House of the Dragon and means 'patience.' There's probably a story there but I don't know it. Fornia is old; over two thousand. A sorcerer of some repute. Battle magic, mostly. He also keeps a staff of sorcerers to assist him. No discoveries, but they have a good reputation in the House."
I grunted.
Kragar continued. "He did a fair bit of expanding before the Interregnum, and he's been at it again during the last hundred years or so. Maintains a standing army of about six hundred, but also hires as needed, including Easterners. He—"
"Easterners? I don't understand."
"He's been known to hire Eastern mercenaries for certain actions."
"Eastern mercenaries?"
"Yes."
"I didn't know—I've never heard of—"
"Neither did I and I haven't either."
"Are you sure about it?"
"Yes," said Kragar.
"From where in the East?"
"Not your part. Farther south, as I understand it. Some foot soldiers, but a lot of horsemen. He's known to keep a strong cavalry and to use it well."
"What do you mean, my part?"
"The part of the East your family came from."
"How do you know which part of the East my family came from?"
"Vlad—"
"Yes?"
"Did you think I would be willing to work for you without finding out anything about you?"
"Uh … what else did you find out?"
"You don't really want to know, do you?"
"Hmmm. All right. Go on."
"That's very strange, Boss."
"How much Kragar knows about me? Or the business with the Eastern mercenaries?"
"Well, both, but I was thinking about the Eastern mercenaries."
"Yeah, it's strange."
"Did you find out why he'd have stolen the weapon?"
"No, but I have a theory: the same reason anyone else would have; they represent power. If you want things like that, they're the sorts of things you'd want."
I digested that and failed to find a suitable response. "You said he keeps trying to expand his area. What does the Empress have to say about it?"
"He's been going after other Dragonlords; the Empress has pretty much the same attitude about that as about Jhereg wars: Let them have at each other as long as it doesn't interfere with the workings of the Empire."
"Interesting parallel; I wonder what Morrolan would think about it?"
Kragar smiled. I think, as a one-time Dragonlord, he took special joy in remarks like that. Of course, it also made him a good source of information about matters military.
"All right," I said. "Let me summarize. What we have is a matter of Dragons acting like Dragons. This Fornia is after more land and power, so he steals a Morganti weapon, and Morrolan is after the same, so he doesn't want him to, and we can tell Morrolan who this guy is, and then we're done, and there's no
thing more to it. Right? Heh. So, what haven't you told me?"
"The main thing is: Dragonlords don't steal."
"I see. And therefore?"
"One possibility is that he wanted it really, really badly. Another is that he intended to be outraged."
"Excuse me?"
Kragar paused and stared at the ceiling as if to formulate a complicated thought. "He steals the thing, Morrolan accuses him of stealing the thing, he gets outraged."
"Oh. Is he a Dragon or a Yendi?"
"They aren't all that different, Vlad." I started to speak, but Kragar quickly said, "I should qualify that. Yendi are like that all the time, but a Dragon on a campaign is capable of subtlety when necessary."
"Okay, I get it."
"So," said Kragar, "there's likely more going on than we know about."
"Well, okay, fine. How does it concern us?"
"I don't know. Maybe, if we're lucky, not at all."
I sighed. "Okay. I'll report what I've found out—"
"What who has found out?"
"—to Morrolan and see what he says. But I'm not going to go steal that thing back." Then I asked hopefully, "Is there anything that needs attention around here before I go put myself in the Dragon's maw?"
" 'Fraid not."
"All right. Thanks. Good work."
You don't, Sethra explained to me after it was all over, get to pick and choose your resources when you begin a campaign. In other words, the object is to make the best use of what you have and to find a way to pit your strengths against the enemy's weaknesses. She used a complicated example I didn't follow involving pitting cavalry against sorcery, and long, fast marches against an enemy entrenched in a long line. Her point being that the first thing you do when starting a campaign is assess your own strengths and weaknesses and your opponent's in light of your goals.
As I say, I didn't follow the analogy, but now, looking back on it, when I can, if I want, see everything I did in military terms, I suppose you could say that it was somewhere in there that I began to take stock of my own forces, as if this were a campaign I had decided to enter on. The fact is, it wasn't until a day or two later that I became committed to it, but even as I sat there in my office contemplating what Kragar had told me and preparing another visit to Castle Black, I was, even if I didn't know it, embarking on a campaign, and somewhere in the back of my head I was assessing the forces I had to work with and preparing myself for what was to come.
I just didn't think I was going to give my report to Morrolan and be finished with it, even though I couldn't have told you why I had that feeling.
But my campaign had no goal, at least at that point, which made the preparation a bit tricky. And it was all unconscious, which made it trickier. And the fact is, I still think I'd have been done with the whole thing if Fornia hadn't … but no, we'll leave that to its proper place.
This time I had one of my own sorcerers do the teleport: a guy named Temek who had been with me all along. He was competent as a sorcerer, though his main skill was, let's say, elsewhere. He did a good enough job.
When I reached Castle Black, I made a point of noting landmarks—most of them way below me—in case I had to teleport myself there one of these days. I achieved only limited success, but I'm never excited about performing a teleport; I'm not that good at it. The stream was very thin below me, and details were hard to pick out, but there was certainly some sort of footbridge over it, partially hidden by a pair of trees at one end. The trees themselves, and those nearby, seemed from above to be oddly shaped; perhaps shiptrees bred millennia earlier for designs no longer used. Then again, perhaps my eyes and the altitude were conspiring to trick me.
When I felt ready, I moved toward the doors of Castle Black; I even managed a jaunty salute toward a pair of guards who watched me from the wall. They didn't appear to notice. Again the doors swung open and again Lady Teldra greeted me. She was tall and lithe and managed to achieve beauty without sexuality—that is, I enjoyed looking at her but felt no desire. This is unusual for me, and I wondered if it was a calculated effect.
"The Lord Morrolan," she said, "will join you in the library directly. Would you care for refreshment?"
"Please."
She escorted me up the long winding stairway to the library, left me for a moment, and returned with a glass of a red wine that had too much tannin for my taste and was too warm, but which was good anyway. I'd been in that library on several occasions; this time, while I waited, I looked at some of his books. Most of them seemed, predictably, to be either history or sorcery. There were some books about the East that aroused my interest, in particular one called Customs and Superstitions in the Eastern Mountains, and another called The Wars for Independence in the Mountain States, both published in the East, and both written by someone called Fekete Sziiszf, which I knew to be a Fenarian name. I wasn't sure what I thought about Morrolan having such books.
Loiosh informed me of his approach just before he said, "You may borrow them, if you wish," so I could avoid letting him startle me.
"I'd like that very much."
"I should warn you, however, that I have several volumes devoted to curses for people who don't return books."
"I'd like to borrow those, too."
"What brings you here?"
"I have the name you're after."
"Ah. So soon?"
"If you're going to employ Easterners, you'll have to adjust to things happening quickly."
"Boss, do you think he really has books full of curses for people who—"
"It wouldn't surprise me a bit, Loiosh."
"All right, then," said Morrolan. "Who is it?"
I gave him the name and watched his face. I might as well have been watching his rows of books.
"Very well," he said.
"Is that all?"
"No."
"Well, Boss, did you think—"
"Shut up."
"What else, then?"
"The weapon must be retrieved."
"Yeah. I know some thieves. If you want it stolen back I'll give you a name or two."
"They wouldn't work for me. Besides—"
"I know. Dragonlords don't steal. And that isn't what you want anyway."
Morrolan nodded, but his thoughts seemed elsewhere. "More important, however, is that the Count of Fornia be taught a lesson."
"A lesson? I hope you aren't going to ask me to kill him, because—"
Morrolan's nostrils flared and he started in on a glare which died on the vine. "You are jesting, I presume. Please do not make such jests in the future."
I shrugged. I hadn't been, but there was no reason to tell him that. I was relieved he wasn't going to ask me to put a shine on a Dragonlord anyway.
"No, I think I must go to war with him."
I looked at Morrolan and blinked. "Well, of course. Certainly. That's obvious. What else can one do? But how does that concern me?"
"It doesn't, directly."
"Well, that's a relief, anyway."
"Too bad, Boss. I was hoping for a commission."
"Shut up, Loiosh."
"Lieutenant Loiosh … has a nice sound, don't you think?"
"Shut up, Loiosh."
"Attention, First Jhereg Lancers, forward at a march—"
"Shut the fuck up, Loiosh."
"Yes sir, Colonel. Aye aye. Shutting up, sir."
"I don't suppose you have any experience in military reconnaissance?"
"I assure you, in the small fishing village I come from it forms the sole topic of conversation."
"I hadn't thought so. Still, you may prove useful. In the meantime, I appreciate what you've done. I'll have payment sent over by messenger."
"Payment is always appreciated. But I'm not entirely happy with the 'you may prove useful' business. I don't suppose you could tell me what you have in mind?"
"If it were a Jhereg matter, would you tell me?"
"Of course. Openness and Honesty is my credo."
He tw
itched me a smile.
I said, "Just out of curiosity, how does this work? Are you going to declare war on him, or what?"
"A formal declaration of war isn't called for in an action of this type. I'll just send him a message demanding the return of the sword, or accusing him of stealing it, and that will accomplish the same thing. But there are preparations to be made first."
"Like gathering an army?"
"Yes, and planning a campaign, and, above all, hiring a general."
"Hiring a general?" That time I was actually startled. "You're not going to lead the army yourself?"
"Would you assassinate someone yourself if you could get Mario to do it?"
Actually, I probably would, but—"I see your point. And who is this military genius who is the moral equivalent of Mario? Wait, no, don't tell me. Sethra Lavode."
"Good guess."
"I've always been bright for my age." Then, "Wait a minute. How do you know about Mario?"
He looked smug again. I must stop giving him occasion to look smug.
I said, "You think Sethra will do it?"
"I know she will."
"Because she's a friend?"
"For that, yes, and other reasons."
"Hmmmph."
"Boss, there's a lot going on here that we don't know about."
"You think so? Really? Next you'll tell me that a Dzur in the wild can be dangerous."
"How 'bout if you do the killing and I do the irony?"
That, in any case, concluded the interview with Morrolan. I picked up the books I was borrowing and made my way down the stairs toward the front doors, where a sorcerer was prepared to make me sick again. I stopped at the landing and studied the painting there up close. It was ideally viewed from the floor below or above, but up close I could see the texturing that went into the detail work, and, though it strained my neck, I could study the head of the wounded Dragon. Even in a painting, there was something powerful and intriguing about the way those tentacle-like appendages around its neck seemed to wave and flutter—apparently at random, yet there was purpose in it. And the expression on the Dragon's face spoke of necessity, but of a certain joy as well. The wound in its side, which was closest to me, was skillfully rendered to evoke pity but not disgust, and even in the young Dragon there was a certain hint that, though requiring protection, it was still a Dragon and thus not to be trifled with either.
