The Book of Taltos (9 page)

I hate Morganti weapons.

When Kragar returned with the drawings we spent a whole day going over them and coming up with stupid ideas. We were flatly unable to think up an intelligent one. We put the whole thing off for a day and tried again with the same results. Finally Kragar said, “Look, boss, the idea of breaking into an Athyra’s keep is stupid. Naturally, any idea for how to do it is also going to be stupid.”

I said, “Ummm, yeah.”

“So just close your eyes and pick one.”

“Right,” I said.

And that’s pretty much what I did.

We spent a few hours polishing it down to the point of least possible
idiocy. When Kragar went off to make some of the arrangements, I closed my eyes and thought about Sethra Lavode. I called up a picture of her face, tried to “hear” her voice, and sent my mind out, questing. Sethra Lavode? Where are you, Sethra? Hello? Vlad, here . . .

Contact came remarkably easily.

She said,
“Who is it?”

“Vlad Taltos.”

“Ah. What do you want?”

“I have a plan for getting in. I need to make arrangements with you and Morrolan for timing and backup and stuff like that.”

“Very well,”
she said.

It took about an hour, at the end of which I was no more confident than I’d been before speaking with her. But there you are. Orders went out, arrangements were made, and I reviewed my will. The stuff of life.

I felt very close to Loiosh, in tune with him. I discovered I was sitting cross-legged before the sorcery rune I’d drawn. I still had no idea why I’d drawn it in the first place, but it felt right.

It was quiet here. The wind, though almost still, whispered secret thoughts in my ear. I could clearly hear the rustle of fabric as Loiosh shifted slightly on my shoulder.

I began to feel something then—a rhythmic pulsing, disconcerting in that I was feeling it, not hearing it. I tried to identify its source, and could only conclude that it was coming from within me.

Strange.

I could try to ignore it, or I could try to understand it, or I could try to incorporate it. I opted for the latter and began to concentrate on it. A Dragaeran would have been impatient with its simplicity, but to me it was a rather attractive rhythm, soothing. My grandfather had told me that drums were often used in spells, back in his homeland. I could believe that. I allowed myself to fall into it, waiting until my skin seemed to vibrate in sympathy.

Then I reached out my right hand, slowly, gently, toward the herbs and charms I’d laid out on that side. My hand touched something and I picked it up, brought it before my eyes without moving my head. It was a sprig of
parsley. I set that in the center of the rune. I repeated the process with my left hand, and it brought back a clod of dirt from the Eastern home of my ancestors.

The dirt would reinforce arrival and safety; I had no idea what the parsley could represent in this context. I broke the dirt over the parsley. Behind the rune I placed a single white candle, which I also retrieved without looking. I kindled it, gently, with flint and a scrap of paper. A single candle burns brightly when it is the only source of light save the faint glow from the night sky.

It was then that I noticed the horizon before me, which had begun to flicker and waver, dancing, it seemed, in time to the pulsing of nonexistent drums. I decided not to let this disturb me unduly.

I contemplated my next action, waiting.

T
HE VERY WEALTHY MAN
drove his wagon up the hill toward the keep. This keep was actually a single, reddish stone structure, half of it underground, the other half in the form of a single tower.

It is a common misconception that those in the House of the Athyra have no doors into or out of their homes—the idea being that if one doesn’t know how to teleport, one doesn’t belong there. This is almost true, except that they don’t require their servants to know how to teleport. There is almost always a door or two for deliveries of those goods the wizards and sorcerers of the keep consider too demeaning to fetch for themselves. Trivial things such as food, drink, and assassins. These items are delivered by wagons to a special receiving area in the rear, where they are received, each in its own way.

Of course, the assassins aren’t usually expected and, one hopes, not noticed. Theirs is a sad lot, to be sure, with no servant within who knows to announce them. Nor, in fact, are they able to announce themselves, being hidden in a cask marked “Greenhills Wine, ’637.”

They are most certainly not going to be announced by the very wealthy and equally terrified Teckla who delivers them and who, presumably, wishes to live to enjoy his newly acquired wealth.

No one was around to witness the various indignities I suffered during the
unloading and storing process, so I shall refrain from mentioning them. It is sufficient to say that by the time I was able to break out of the stupid cask I was, fortunately, neither drunk nor drunk, if you take my meaning.

So . . . out. Stretch. Check my weapons. Stretch again. Look around. Do not make any rustling noises by getting out the floor plan, because you have it memorized. You
do
have it memorized, don’t you? Think now—this is either
that
room or
that
room. Either way, the door lets out into a hall that leads . . . don’t tell me now . . . oh, yes. Good. Shit. What, by all the gods of your ancestors, are you doing here, anyway?

Oh, yeah: money. Crap.

“You okay, boss?”

“I’ll live, Loiosh. You?”

“I think I’ll live.”

“Good.”

First step is getting the door open. Loraan may not be able to detect it when someone uses witchcraft within his keep, but I’m not going to bet
my
life on it; at least not unless I have to.

So I pulled a vial of oil from within my cloak, opened it, smeared its contents on the hinges, and tested the door. No, it wasn’t locked, and yes, it opened silently. I put the oil away, sealing it carefully. Kiera had taught me that. This, you understand, is how assassins are able to sneak around so quietly: we cheat.

There was no light in the hall, and there shouldn’t be any random boxes, either, according to Kragar’s source. My favorite kind of door (an unlocked one) guarded the room where I chose to spend the remaining hours until the early morning hour I had selected. More oil, and I was inside. There was about a ten-to-one chance against anyone disturbing me in this room. If anyone did, Loiosh would wake me up and I’d kill the intruder. No sweat. Assuming no trouble, Loiosh would keep track of time for me and wake me at the right hour. I spread out my cloak, closed my eyes, and rested. Eventually I slept.

T
HE CITY OF
A
DRILANKHA
is most of County Whitecrest, which is a thin strip of land along the southern seacoast. The name “Adrilankha” means
“bird of prey” in the secret language of the House of the Orca, which no one speaks anymore. The story is that the mariners who first sighted the area along the red cliffs thought it looked like such a bird, with bright red wings held high, head down at the sea level where the Sunset River cut through the land.

The low area around the river is where the docks were built, and the city grew up from it, until now most of the city is high above the docks and a long way inland. The two “wings” of the bird don’t look much like wings anymore, since the northern wing, called Kieron’s Watch, collapsed into the sea a few hundred years ago.

The southern wing has many good places from which to watch the waves crashing, and ships coming and going, and like that. I remember sitting there doing that sort of watching and not thinking about anything in particular when a Dragaeran—an Orca and probably a seaman—came staggering up next to me.

I turned and looked him over and decided he was drunk. He was pretty old, I think. At least, his face had turned into a prune, which doesn’t usually happen to Orcas until they’re at least a couple thousand years old.

As he came up, his eyes fell on me and I backed up a couple of steps from the cliff edge out of an instinctive mistrust of Dragaerans. He noticed this and laughed. “So, whiskers, you don’t want to go swimming today?”

When I didn’t say anything, he said, “Answer me. You want to go swimming or not?” I couldn’t think of anything to say so I remained quiet, watching him. He snarled and said, “Maybe you ought to just leave, whiskers, before I send you for a swim whether you want one or not.”

I don’t know for sure why I didn’t leave. Certainly I was frightened—this man was much older than the punks I usually had to deal with, and he looked tougher, too. But I just stood there, watching him. He took a step toward me, perhaps just to frighten me away. I took my lepip from my pants and held it at my side. He stared at it, then laughed.

“You think you’re going to hit me with that, is that it? Here, I’ll show you how to use one of those things.” And he came at me with his hand out, to take it away.

What I remember most vividly is the cold thrill in my stomach as I realized I wasn’t going to let him take my weapon. This wasn’t a bunch of kids out
to have a lark and vent their frustration at whatever it was they were frustrated about—this was a grown man. I knew I was committing myself to something that would have far-reaching effects, though I couldn’t have put it that way then.

Anyway, as soon as he was in reach I cracked him one on the side of the head. He stumbled and fell to his knees. He looked up at me, and I saw in his eyes that there wasn’t a beating at stake anymore; that he’d kill me if he had the chance. He started to stand up and I went for him with the lepip. I missed, but he fell over backward, rolled, and came to his knees again.

His back was to the cliff, about two steps behind him. The next time he tried to stand up, I stepped up and very deliberately shoved him backward with the lepip.

He screamed all the way down, and I couldn’t hear the splash over the sound of the waves crashing against the cliff.

I put my lepip back in my pants and walked straight home, wondering if I should be feeling something.

“
. . . 
C
’
MON
,
BOSS
,
TIME TO
get up. There are six Dragon warriors here, and they all want to duel with you. Let’s go! There’s a Dzur hero knocking on the door asking about his daughter, better get up. Okay boss, wake up! The Great Sea of Chaos has just moved into the next bedroom and it insists that you have a better view. Wakey wakey.”

Waking up in the middle of the night, in a damp storage closet, wedged between dried kethna ribs and a tub of lard, with a wise-ass jhereg thundering smart remarks in your mind, has little to recommend it.

“All right, stuff it, Loiosh.”

I got up and stretched, worrying about the sound my joints were making, though that was silly. I buckled on this and checked that. I moved over to the door and spent a few minutes listening to make sure there was no one out there. I opened the door, which was still lubricated. Then left down the hall, eighteen paces, oil the door, open it.