The Book of Taltos (4 page)

“Hello, Vlad.”

Kiera the Thief sat down next to me.

I said, “What are you doing around here?”

“Tasting Fenarian brandies.”

The host was staring at her, half hostile and half fearful. I was a Jhereg but at least I was human. Kiera was a Dragaeran. I took a look around and saw that the three other customers in the place were staring at Kiera with expressions that held different mixtures of fear and hatred. I turned back to the host and said, “The lady asked for a drink.”

He glanced at the table where the other three humans sat, at Kiera, then back at me. I held his gaze, waiting. He licked his lips, hesitated, then said, “Right,” and poured her the same thing he’d given me. Then he wandered over to the other end of the bar. I shrugged, and Kiera and I moved to a table.

“So,” I said. “Come here often?”

She smiled. “I’ve heard that you’re having some troubles.”

I shook my head. “Someday I’ll find out how you learn these things.”

“Maybe you will. Do you need help, Vlad?”

“Just courage, I think.”

“Oh?”

“You probably know one of my button-men has been stealing the eggs.”

“Yeah. And mama hen isn’t happy.”

“Papa rooster if you don’t mind.”

“Right. What are you doing about it?”

“Going somewhere I don’t want to go, for starters.”

“Where?”

“Have you ever heard of Castle Black?”

Her eyes widened appreciatively. “A Dragonlord named Morrolan, I believe,” she said.

“Right.”

She cocked her head to the side. “I’ll tell you what, Vlad. You go ahead and follow him there. If Morrolan kills you, he won’t live out the month.”

I felt a lump rise in my throat. After a moment I said, “Going into another line of work, Kiera?”

She smiled. “We all have friends.”

“Well, thanks,” I said. “That’s yet another one I owe you.”

She nodded, still smiling. Then she got up, said, “Good wine,” and walked out of the place.

And it’s funny. Revenge is rather silly. I mean, I’d be dead, why should I care? Yet, somehow, her saying that was just what I needed to reassure me. I still can’t figure out why.

I had another drink after she left and, just to prove Loiosh wrong, stopped at two. I called on my link to the Orb once more, and found I still had a couple of hours before I had to be back at the office. I paid the host, told him I’d be back sometime, and headed for home.

M
Y GRANDFATHER HAS A
white cat named Ambrus, who is the most intelligent cat I’ve ever met, as well as the oldest. I never actually played with him, the way people usually play with cats, but sometimes, when a child, I would sit and talk to him while my father and grandfather were in the other room, talking. I used to pretend that he could understand me, and either he really could, or my memory is playing tricks on me, because a normal cat couldn’t have responded the way Ambrus did: meowing
exactly
in answer to questions, purring when I told him I liked him, and extending his claws and swiping at the air behind him when I’d point that way and say, “Look out, a dragon.”

Knowing what I know now, I don’t think my memory is playing tricks on me.

In any case, one day when I was, I don’t know, maybe seven, my father saw me talking to him and scowled.

I said, “You don’t like cats, papa?”

He said, “It isn’t that. Never mind.”

I think I remember seeing Noish-pa standing behind him, watching the scene, and maybe smiling just a little.

H
UMANS DO WITCHCRAFT
, D
RAGAERANS
do sorcery. I do both, which is unusual, so I’m in a good position to compare them. The one difference that keeps hitting me is that witchcraft is more
fun.
If a witch could teleport (a thing that seems impossible, but I could be wrong), it would involve hours of preparation, rituals, chanting, and filling all the senses with the desired result until the spell would work in a blinding explosion of emotional fulfillment.

Narvane, one of my enforcers and an excellent sorcerer, just said, “Ready?”

I said, “Yeah.”

He casually raised his hand, the office vanished around me, and I felt a lurch in my gut.

T
HERE WAS A DAY
when I did something, I don’t remember what, and my father slapped me for it. I probably deserved it. It wasn’t the first time he’d slapped me, but this occasion I recall specifically. I think I must have been about seven or eight.

What I remember is that I looked up at him curiously and shook my head. His eyes grew wide, and maybe a little fearful, and he stood there staring at me for a moment before turning and walking into the other room. I guess he wanted to ask about the look on my face, but he didn’t, and I didn’t say anything. You must understand, I was very young, so I’m reconstructing a lot of this from memory, but I retain the impression that my reaction frightened or puzzled him a little. But what was going through my mind was something like, “You call that hitting someone? That hardly hurt. I get beat worse than that every time you send me to the market for bay leaves.”

I
DIDN’T NOTICE WHERE
I was at first, because I was too busy feeling sick to my stomach. Dragaerans don’t have this reaction to teleports but I do, and every other human I know does, too.

I kept my eyes closed and resolved not to throw up. Maybe the brandy had been a mistake. I risked a quick look and saw that I was in an open courtyard; then I realized that I was standing on air and closed my eyes again.
Whatever was holding me up felt solid. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes again.

The great double doors of the castle were about fifty yards in front of me. High, high walls were all around. Why did Morrolan have walls around a castle that floated? I risked a look down and saw orange-red clouds. Above me was more of the same. There was a cool breeze on my face bringing a faint smoky smell. I saw no one else in the courtyard.

I glanced around the walls and saw towers placed at the corners. Towers, walls, and the castle itself were of the same black stone—obsidian, I think—much of it carved into figures battling or hunting or just lounging on the walls.

Pretentious bastard.

I saw a pair of guards in one tower. They both wore the black and silver of the House of the Dragon. One carried a spear, the other a staff.

Wizards, employed as guards.

Well, he’d certainly convinced me that he was rich, if nothing else. The guard with the spear saw me looking at him and saluted. I nodded back, wishing Loiosh were with me, and started walking toward the great double doors of Castle Black.

I
F
I
LOOK BACK
on my life as if it were that of a stranger, I’d have to say that I grew up around violence. That sounds peculiar to me, because I’ve never really thought of it that way, but as far back as I can remember I had a fear of Dragaerans. Home was above father’s restaurant, which was in an area where Easterners—humans—didn’t live. I spent most of my time in the restaurant even before I started helping around the place. And I can still remember the thrill of fear every time I left it, and long chases through alleys, and beatings at the hands of Dragaerans who didn’t like humans, or other humans who thought we were getting above ourselves. This latter—being beaten up by other Easterners—didn’t happen often. The first time I think I was about eight. My father presented me with an outfit in the colors of House Jhereg. I remember that day because it was one of the few times I can recall seeing my father happy. I picked up his mood and went strutting around in my new clothes and was found by a few human kids about my own age who, well, you can guess. I’ll spare you the details.

The funny thing is that I remember feeling sorry for them, because I’d been beaten by Dragaerans, and was thinking that these poor, puny Easterners couldn’t even beat me up as well as Dragaerans could.

M
Y BOOTS WENT
CLACK
clack
against thin air, which was a bit unnerving. Things became even more unnerving as I got closer to the doors and recognized marks around them as witchcraft symbols. I licked my lips.

I was about ten feet away when both doors swung open with great, silent majesty. They didn’t even squeak. This was
very
unnerving. I immediately ran one hand through my hair and adjusted the clasp of my cloak with the other. This allowed my arms to brush over various goodies that I conceal about my person because it’s better to give than to receive surprises.