Dragon

eVersion 1.0 - click for scan notes

This book was written for my dear friend, Geri Sullivan, who rocked the whole album cover situation.

Thanks to the following people who were of great help with research: Corwin Brust, Gail Catherine, Paul Knappenberger, Beki Oshiro, and Gypsy.

Thanks also to Emma Bull, Raphael Carter, Pamela Dean, and Will Shetterly for helpful suggestions and general Scribblification; to Fred A. Levy Haskell for last-minute proofing; to Liz, Beki, Cyndi, and Tesla for chocolate, first reactions, and Stuff; and to Patrick and Teresa for many things, but especially for the Staten Island Ferry.

It's high time I acknowledged and thanked Steve Bond, Reen Brust, John Robey, and John Stanley: You Know Who You Are.

Always and ever, my thanks to Adrian Morgan, whose fingerprints are on every page of every book I've written about Dragaera.

And special thanks to Stephen Jones of Wembly, England, who first suggested this one.

When all is in harmony the army can withstand natural attacks and those that appear to be supernatural.

—Sun Tzu, The Art of War

No shit, there I was …

We'd been cut up so many ways and so many times we hardly had a skirmish line, and the enemy kept getting reinforced. I, like the rest of the outfit, was exhausted and terrified from swords buzzing past my ear and various sorts of sorceries going "whoosh" over my head, or maybe it was the other way around; and there were dead people moaning and writhing on the ground, and wounded people lying still, and that was almost certainly the other way around, but I'm giving it to you as I remember it, though I know my memory sometimes plays tricks on me.

More on that in a second.

First, I have to ask you to excuse me for starting in the middle, but that's more or less where it starts.

So there I was, in a full-scale battle; that is, in a place where no self-respecting assassin ought to be. Worse, in a full-scale battle with the keen sense that I was on the losing side, at least in this part of the engagement. I stood on Dorian's Hill, with the Wall about two hundred yards behind me, and the Tomb (which is not a tomb, and never was, and ought not to be called that) about a quarter of a mile to my left. I wanted to teleport out, or at least run, but I couldn't because, well, I just couldn't. I had a sword, and I carried enough other weaponry to outfit half of Cropper Company (my unit, hurrah hurrah). In front of us was The Enemy, getting closer with each step, and looking like this time they meant to stay. There were so many of them, and all I could think of was, "If they want this damned hill so badly, let them have it," but I knew that was wrong, and certainly my messmates would have argued with the sentiment; we'd worked hard enough to take it away from them the first time. (And we had failed. So why did we now occupy the hill? I don't know; they don't explain these things to foot soldiers.)

Then, as if that wasn't bad enough, I heard the rip of the juice-drum playing "Time To Be Alive," which meant to form up for a charge. I guessed the Captain had decided we weren't strong enough to defend, or else he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. I don't know: it seemed to me that if you already had the high ground, why waste it by charging? I wanted to call him an idiot but I knew he wasn't.

I relaxed my grip on my sword and took the requisite Three Deep Breaths as he positioned himself in front of us. I found myself right next to Dunn, the alternate bannerman, which put my life expectancy at just marginally above his, and his was just about the same as the bannerman, and hers was mathematically almost indistinguishable from zero. Well, they had both wanted the job; now they had it.

The Captain gave no speeches this time; I guess he'd said everything he had to say over the last couple of days. He gave the signal that started us moving forward.

As before, I discovered that I was moving, although I don't remember ever deciding to; I wondered, as I had several times before, if there was some sort of subtle magic involved, but I don't think so. I recall that I really, really, really wanted to bolt, but I still couldn't, so of course I did the only thing I could: I started praying. It was far too late for that, however, and nothing happened. Or maybe something did; I'm not sure. Oh yeah, I was going to talk about memory. Maybe memory is where it starts. I don't know where it starts; that's part of why I'm doing this, hoping to put it together and make some kind of sense out of the whole thing. Of course, the gold ingots are a bigger part of why I'm doing this. Where was I? Right, memory.

I woke up one morning remembering something I'd forgotten the day before. I'd been having a one-sided conversation with a metal box, much as I'm doing now, in exchange for a good sum of raw gold and various useful oddities and trinkets, and I'd felt like I'd fulfilled my part of the bargain, but then, the morning after I finished, I realized what I'd forgotten, and my first thought was that someone had been playing with my memories. My second thought was that, if this were true, I was going to hurt someone. My third thought was to consider, if someone was repressing my memories, who that someone had to be. This was chilling, and it brought me fully awake, which led to one of those irritating sessions of "How much was a dream?" After several minutes I had it sorted out in my head so I got up.

Loiosh, my familiar, was just stirring. He gave his bat-like wings one lazy flap, hissed at me sleepily, and said, "How 'bout something to eat?" into my mind.

I said, "Do you remember Deathgate Falls?"

"No. I'm senile. Of course I remember—"

"As you approach the Falls, do you remember there being a large statue?"

"Sure, Boss. Where Morrolan performed that embarrassing ritual. What about it?"

"Nothing." Right. The ritual. I had forgotten that, too. I hate having disturbing thoughts before breakfast. I hate having thoughts before breakfast.

"Is it important, Boss?"

"Let it go, Loiosh."

That was then, and it illustrates what a tricky thing memory is: I had forgotten something important that had happened just days before, yet now, more than three years later, I remember waking up and talking to Loiosh about it. Interesting, isn't it?

But here, I've left you, you odd, shiny contraption with presumed ears at both ends, confused about who and what I am, and generally what I'm on about. Okay. I'll let you stay confused a little longer, and if you don't trust me to clear everything up, then you can go hang. I've been paid.

I whipped up a quick omelet, ate it, and washed up, considering whether to ask someone about my odd memory lapse. I'd made two acquaintances recently who might know, but I felt loath to ask them; something about expressing weakness, I suppose. But it bothered me. I was still thinking about it when I finished donning my Jhereg colors (grey and black, if you're taking notes) and making sure my various weapons were in place; after which I stepped out onto the street I all but owned.

I don't usually travel with a bodyguard. For one thing, it would be hard to find anyone who could give me more warning of danger than Loiosh; for another, I'm not important enough to be a real threat to anyone; and for yet another, it's humiliating. I know that to some in the Organization the number of bodyguards is a status symbol, but to me they are only an irritation.

But I'm different. I wasn't born into the Organization. I wasn't even born into House Jhereg. In fact, I wasn't born a citizen; I'm human. They aren't. This is enough of a difference that it can explain all others.

So you can look around as I did. See the Teckla running around like the small rodents they are named for, doing things they think are important, selecting fruits at the fruit stands or pieces of fabric from the weavers, laying a bet with the local bookmaker, rushing to work in a garden or at a weaver's, and, directly or indirectly, feeding me. See the Chreotha or the Jhegaala, with titles of the nobility but lives of the bourgeois selling the fabric or the fruit or buying brain-drugs or trying to get a bargain from the local fence and, directly or indirectly, feeding me. And, rarest of all, see the nobles themselves, strutting about like Issola in spring, scattering pennies to the paupers, having servants buy select wines and the more exotic brain-drugs, and, directly or indirectly, feeding me.

It's surprising that I stay so thin.

None of them gave me any special regard as I strolled by for another day of extracting from them everything I could. I like it that way.

The walk from flat to office was short, yet it was enough time for me to get a feel for what was going on in the neighborhood; on that day there was nothing worth noting—not the least clue, as it were, of the events that had already been set in motion. I arrived, as I recall, early that day. The Jhereg operates all day, but the real action is mostly at night, so things get started correspondingly late; I rarely see my office before noon. That day I arrived before my secretary, hung my cloak on the cloak-rack, set my rapier against the wall, and sat down at my desk to see what, if any, correspondence had arrived during the morning.

There was one item: a piece of expensive parchment sat in the middle of my desk; on it, in a neat, elegant hand, was written, "V. Taltos, Baronet." I picked it up and inspected the back, which showed a Dragonshead seal.

I set it down again and considered before opening it. I may have been a bit afraid of what it would say. No, I most certainly was afraid of what it would say. I picked it up and broke the seal before Loiosh could start on me.

Baronet—

It would give me great pleasure to see you again. It may also prove profitable for you. If you would like assistance in transportation, you may inquire of Baron Lokran e'Terics at the House of the Dragon. Arrive today between noon and the tenth hour, and I will take the time to see you at once.

I Remain, my dear sir,

Cordially

Morrolan e'Drien

P.S.: You expressed a preference for a formal invitation over our last method of asking for your help; I hope this meets with your approval—M.

I set the letter down again and thought about many things.

As always when dealing with Morrolan, I didn't quite know how to take him. He calls his home Castle Black, which is either pretentious to the point of being silly, or a just and reasonable statement of his power; take your pick. He was unusual—perhaps "unique" would be a better word—in that he was a Dragaeran, and a Dragonlord no less, who studied Eastern witchcraft, which either showed that he did not share his compatriots' attitude toward humans, or showed that he was so contemptuous of us that he could offhandedly learn our secret arts; take your pick. The "last method" he referred to had been offensive enough that we had almost killed each other over it, so this reference was either a nasty cut or a peace offering; take your pick.

However, it never occurred to me not to accept his invitation.

"We're going to Castle Black, Loiosh."

"I can hardly wait, Boss. When?"

I consulted the Imperial Orb through my psychic link. It was less than an hour before noon.

"Now," I told him.

I strapped my rapier back on, not terribly reassured by its weight hanging at my side and the scabbard's tapping against my leg. Melestav, my secretary, was just arriving. He seemed startled to see me. I said, "I have an errand. If you never see me again, blame Morrolan of the House of the Dragon. See you."

I stepped back out onto the street—the first steps, as it were, that began the journey that led me toward war and death. I hired a cabriolet to cut down on the number of actual steps involved. I gave the runner no particular attention, but I tipped him well. This is probably significant of something.

The House of the Dragon faces the Imperial Palace, just a bit west of north, and is marked by a forty-foot-high marble likeness of Kieron the Conqueror holding his greatsword in one hand, its point off to the East; seeing it makes me tired. There is no discernible expression on Kieron's face, at least from below. There are (surprise surprise) seventeen steps up to the doors, which were standing open when I arrived, a bit footsore, just about noon.

When you enter the House of the Dragon, you are in the Great Hall, a vast, huge, booming, echoing place with murals on the walls depicting violence, skinny windows that don't let much light in, a marble floor, a single, very wide stairway planted in the middle of the Hall and running up out of sight, and many tiny hanging lamps way, way up on the ceiling where they do no good at all and probably require levitation to service; yet there is sufficient light to see the murals, begging the question of how they actually illuminate the place.

I didn't much care for it.

I hadn't been surrounded by so many Dragonlords since I was arrested after the death of my previous boss, and I didn't like this a lot more than I liked that. They were standing in groups and were all of them armed. They were talking quietly, I suppose, but the place echoed horribly so it seemed awash with noise. There was grey bunting draped here and there, which meant that someone had died. I stood there like an idiot for a long, long time—say half a minute—with Loiosh on my shoulder, and then noticed a pair of sentries, on either of side the door—that is, either side of me—and observed that they were staring at me with decidedly unfriendly expressions. This made me feel much more comfortable, because I'd rather be hated than ignored.

I approached the man because the height of the woman would have put my eyes at breast-level and this didn't seem to be the right time for that. I put some jaunt into my step because Dragonlords, like many wild animals, can smell fear. He looked down at me (my eyes were level with his collar bone) and kept his eyes away from Loiosh; he probably thought I'd get too much satisfaction out of seeing him react to the Jhereg on my shoulder, and he was right. I said, "I seek Baron Lokran."

The Dragonlord swallowed, clenched his jaw, and said, "Who are you?"

I thought about making an issue of the question, but I didn't know the protocol and I didn't like the odds. "Vladimir Taltos of House Jhereg, on an errand for Lord Morrolan e'Drien." That should shut him up.

It did. "Up the stairs, straight back, last door on the left. Clap and enter."

I sketched a bow, resisting the temptation to make it over-elaborate.

"What are you afraid of, Boss?"

"Shut up, Loiosh."

The steps were set too high for my comfort, making it a challenge to climb casually with, I assumed, the eyes of the two Dragonlords on my back. I managed as best I could. My footsteps echoed, and the stairway went on for much too long. When I finally reached the top I walked straight back to the end of a hallway longer than the building that houses my entire operation. It ended in a large door which I ignored; instead stopping at the one to my left, as directed. One clap and I entered.

Lokran turned; he had, apparently, been staring out the window. He was young, with bright eyes, and had a faded white scar above his brows—the scar obviously had some sort of sentimental value for him or he'd have had it removed. His hair was dark, straight, and brushed back in almost a Jhereg-cut. He had rings on four fingers of each hand, and the rings all had jewels in them. The room held four stuffed chairs, a sofa, and no desk; a plain grey banner hung above the window. Three or four short, black staves were leaning against the far wall, and a heavy sword in a black sheath stood next to them.

His eyes narrowed briefly when I entered, then he said, "Taltos?" pronouncing it correctly.

I bowed and said, "Lokran?"

He nodded. "Come a little closer."

I did.

He gestured casually in my direction, as if he were brushing away an insect, and my bowels twisted, and I was in the courtyard of Castle Black, standing, as far as I could tell, on thin air that felt like a hard surface, say flagstones, but looked like nothing was holding me up. Just like that. He could have bloody warned me.

I've given a lot of thought to the question of why teleports upset my stomach; why they seem to have that effect on all Easterners, but not on Dragaerans. In between teleports, I've often decided it is all in the imagination of the Easterner, but right after a teleport I've found that answer unsatisfying. The explanation that sprang to mind as I stood before Morrolan's castle, surrounded by his walls, towers, and guards, is that teleports also upset the Dragaeran stomach, but Dragaerans just won't admit it; how can having your innards flop around so violently that you can feel them sloshing not make you queasy? Could natural selection account for it? I don't buy it; I just don't think that nature had it in mind for people to get from one place to another without passing through the intervening area.

These thoughts, I should explain, were one way I occupied my mind while I gave my stomach time to settle down. Another way was to observe that the sentries in the towers were watching me, although they didn't seem especially surprised. Okay, so I was expected. Over one tower floated a single banner, all of grey.

Eventually I risked a look down. There were trees below me that looked like miniature bushes, and the two roads and one stream were lines of brown and blue respectively, meeting and crossing and running almost parallel to form a design that, if I tried, I could convince myself was a mark in some runic alphabet. Maybe it was a symbol that told the castle, "Don't fall down." That was a comforting thought.

I adjusted my cloak, ran a hand through my hair, and approached the double doors of Castle Black. They swung open as I approached, which I should have been expecting, because they'd done the same thing last time. I cursed under my breath but kept a small smile on my lips and didn't break stride—there were Dragonlords watching.

I hadn't noticed it the last time, but one reason that it is so effective to see Lady Teldra appear when the doors open is that she is all you can see—the entryway is unlit, and except for her you might be entering the void that one imagines as the land of the dead. (The land of the dead, however, is not a void—it's worse. But never mind.)

"My Lord Taltos," said Teldra. "Thank you for gracing our home. The Lord awaits you. Please, enter and be welcome."

I felt welcome in spite of my more cynical side whispering, "Whatever."

I crossed the threshold. Lady Teldra did not offer to take my cloak this time. She guided me into the hall with all the paintings, through it, up the wide, curving stairway, and eventually to the library. It was big and full of stuffed chairs and thick books; three of the books, sitting just beyond the entrance, were massive jewel-encrusted objects each chained to a pedestal; I wondered but resolved not to ask. As I entered, Morrolan set a book down and stood up, giving me a small bow.

He opened his mouth, probably to make some sort of ironic courtesy, as a counterpoint to Teldra's sincere one, but I said, "Who died?" before he could get the words out. He shut his mouth, glanced at Loiosh, and nodded toward a chair next to his. I sat down.

He said, "Baritt."

I said, "Oh."

Morrolan seemed to want me to say something, so eventually I said, "You know, the first time I met him I had the feeling he wouldn't be—"

"Do not joke about it, Vlad."

"All right. What do you want me to say? I didn't get the impression he was a friend of yours."

"He wasn't."

"Well?"

Lady Teldra appeared with refreshment—a white wine that would have been too sweet except that it was served over chunks of ice. I sipped it to be polite the first time, and then discovered I liked it. The Issola glided from the room. There was no table on which to set the goblet down, but the chair had wide, flat arms. Very convenient.

"Well?" I repeated.

"In the second place," said Morrolan, "he was an important man. And in the first place—"

"He was a Dragon," I concluded. "Yeah, I know."

Morrolan nodded. I drank some more wine. The sensation of cold helps reduce the sensation of sweetness. I bet you didn't know that.

"So, what happened to the poor bastard?"

Morrolan started to answer, then paused, then said, "It is unimportant."

"All right," I agreed. "It is unimportant to me, in any case." I had met Baritt, or, more properly, his shade, in the Paths of the Dead. He had taken an instant dislike to Morrolan because Morrolan had the bad taste to be traveling with me, which should give you an idea of how Baritt and I had hit it off.

I continued, "I assume it isn't a request for sympathy that led to your invitation."

"You are correct."

"Well?"

He turned his head to the side and looked at me quizzically. "What is it you gave me, Vlad?"

I laughed. "Is that it? Is that what this is all about?"

"Actually, no. I'm just curious."

"Oh. Well, remain curious." I had, in fact, injected him with the blood of a goddess for reasons too complicated to explain now, and, at the time, I was in no condition to explain anything.

"As you wish. Baritt, as I say, died. In going through his possessions—"

"What? Already? He can't have been brought to Death-gate yet."

"And—?"

"Well, that seems awful quick for you long-lived types."

"There are reasons."

"You're just full of information, aren't you?"

"Were I to tell you matters pertaining to the internal politics of the House of the Dragon I should only weary you. And I should then have to kill you for knowing. So my thought was not to trouble you with such information."

"A good thought," I said.

Loiosh shifted on my shoulder, evidently getting restless. "As I was saying, in going through his possessions, certain items were discovered."

He stopped. I waited. He resumed.

"He had a large collection of Morganti weapons. A large collection. Hundreds of them."

I repressed a shiver. "I suppose the reason he had them is none of my business, too."

"That is correct. And, in any case, I don't know."

"Well then, what about them?"

"I spent a good portion of yesterday inspecting them. I have an interest in such things."

"Figures."

His eyes narrowed for a moment, then he evidently decided to ignore it. "Such weapons," he went on, "represent power. Some covet power, some are threatened by others coveting power."

"Which are you?"

"The former."

"I knew that," I said. "I didn't expect you to admit it."

"Why not?"

I couldn't answer that so I didn't. "Go on," I said. "Who's the enemy?"

"You are perspicacious."

"Yeah, but my physicker says it can be treated."

"He means you're perceptive, Boss."

"I know that, Loiosh."

"Yes," said Morrolan. "I believe that I am likely to come into conflict with someone over possession of these weapons."

"Who might that be?"

"I don't know. There are several possibilities. The likeliest is—well, it doesn't matter."

"That's helpful."

"For what I want from you, you don't need to know."

"That's fortunate. Well, what do you want then?"

"I want you to arrange for the stolen weapons to be traced."

"Some weapons have been stolen?"

"Not yet," he said.

"I see. How certain are you?"

"Reasonably."

"Why?"

"That, too, is unimportant. I will be protecting them, as will various others. Whoever wishes to steal one or more will have to hire an expert thief, and that means the Jhereg, and that means—"

"I might be able to find out what's become of it. I see."

"Boss, this could get you into trouble."

"I know."

I sat back and looked at Morrolan. He held my gaze. After a moment I said, "That isn't at all the sort of thing I'm any good at, Morrolan. And, to tell you the truth, if I did find out, I don't believe I could bring myself to tell you. It's a Jhereg thing, you know?"

"I believe I do, yes." He frowned and seemed to be considering. "On the other hand," he said, "if I understand how you—that is, how the Jhereg—work, whoever did the stealing would be unlikely to be more than a tool, hired by someone else, is that correct?"

"Yes," I said, not terribly happy about where this was going.

"Well then, could you find out—"

"Maybe," I admitted.

"What would it take?"

"Money. A lot of it."

"I have money."

"I still want to think about it. It could put me into a situation I'm not certain I'd like."

"I understand. Do think about it, though. I can offer you—"

"Don't tell me. I'd rather not be tempted. I'll let you know."

He nodded and didn't press the issue, which earned him some points with me.

"There's another matter," he said.

I bit back irony and waited.

"The circumstances of Baritt's death—"

"Which are none of my business."

"—have, among other things, made me aware of the vulnerability of Castle Black."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The circumstances of—"

"I heard you, I just don't understand. How is a castle floating half a mile or more in the air vulnerable? Other than to falling down, of course."

"That isn't likely."

"I'm glad to hear it. Which reminds me, why don't my ears pop when I teleport up?"

He looked smug but didn't tell me. "Obviously," he said, "the castle can be penetrated by anyone who can teleport and conceal himself from my guards."

"You don't have any security precautions?"

"Some, but not enough. It seems to me you could be of some assistance in telling me where to improve them."

I thought it over, and realized that I knew exactly how to go about it. "Yes, I can do that." I considered asking about payment, but on reflection calculated that it would be more profitable to do a good job and allow him to display his generosity.

He frowned for a moment, and seemed lost in thought.

"Psychic communication, Boss."

"I knew that, Loiosh."

"You're a liar, Boss."

"Well, yeah."

At about that time, a Dragonlord entered the room and bowed to Morrolan. He was short and rather stocky for a Dragaeran, with short, light-brown hair and pale eyes; he didn't strike me as a fighter, but he wore a blade, which meant he was on duty in some capacity.

Morrolan said, "Fentor, this is Baronet Vladimir Taltos. I know you are willing to work with Easterners, but are you willing to take orders from a Jhereg?"

Fentor said, "My lord?"

Loiosh said, "What did he say?"

I said, "Errgh?"

Morrolan said, "I've just hired Lord Taltos as a security consultant. That puts you in his charge, under certain circumstances."

I felt my mouth open and close. Morrolan had what? And when had he done this?

Fentor said, "That will not be a problem, my lord."

"Good," said Morrolan.

"Excuse me," I said.

"Yes?"

"Yes?"

"Never mind. A pleasure, Fentor."

"The same, my lord."

"Boss, you've just been hired."

"Well, yeah. Recruited, actually."

"You should tell him to never use this power in the service of evil."

"I'll be sure to."

It occurred to me, also, that it was going to be harder, now that I was more or less working for him, to avoid trying to get the information he was after. Of course, maybe I'd get lucky, and no one would steal any of the weapons. Something made me doubt this.

Fentor bowed cordially to us both and made his exit.

I said, "Morrolan, what aren't you telling me?"

"Many things."

"In particular. I get the feeling that you aren't just generally worried about someone stealing some random Morganti weapon."

"You should trust your feelings; they seem to be reliable."

"Thank you so much."

He stood abruptly and said, "Come with me, Vlad. I'll show you around and introduce you to a few people."

"I can hardly wait," I said.

I got up and followed him.

Do you know what a battlefield smells like? If so, you have my sympathy; if not, you still won't, because I have no intention of dwelling on it except to say that people don't smell so good on the inside.

We stepped over the piles of dirt (I can't call it a "bulwark" with a straight face) that we'd spent so much time and sweat creating, and moved forward at a steady pace; not too fast, not too slow. No, come to think of it, much too fast. A slow crawl would have been much too fast.

I adjusted my uniform sash, which was the only mark I carried to show which side I was on, since I'd lost my cute little cap somewhere during the last couple of attacks. About half of the company had lost their cute little caps, and many of the enemy had, too. But we all had sashes, which identified the side we were on, like the ribbons that identify sandball teams. I never played sandball. I'd seen Dragons playing sandball in West Side Park, alongside of Teckla, though never in the same game at the same time, and certainly not on the same team. Make of that what you will.

"Have you thought about getting up in the air and away from this?" I asked my familiar for the fifth time.

"I've thought about it," he answered for the fourth (the first time he hadn't made any response at all, so I'd had to repeat the question; we'd only sustained three attacks hitherto). And, "How did we get into this, anyway?" I'd lost count of how many times he'd asked me that; not as many as I'd asked myself.

We moved forward.

How did we get ourselves into this?

I asked Sethra, not long ago, why she ordered us to hold that position, which never looked terribly important from where I sat—except to me, of course, for personal reasons that I'll go into later. She said, "For the same reason I had Gutrin's spear phalanx attack that little dale to your left. By holding that spot, you threatened an entire flank, and I needed to freeze a portion of the enemy's reserves. As long as you kept threatening that position, he had to either reinforce it or remain ready to reinforce it. That way I could wait for the right time and place to commit my reserves, which I did when—"

"All right, all right," I said. "Never mind."

I hadn't wanted a technical answer, I'd wanted her to say "It was vital to the entire campaign." I wanted to have had a more important role. We were one piece on the board, and only as important as any other. All the pieces wish to be, if not a player, at least the piece the players are most concerned with.

Not being a player was one of the things that bothered me. I was, I suppose, only a piece and not a player when I would carry out the order of one of my Jhereg superiors, but I had been running my own territory for a short while at that point, and had already become used to it. That was part of the problem: In the Jhereg, I was, if not a commander-in-chief, at least a high ranking field officer. Here, I was, well, I guess I was a number of things, but put them all together and they still didn't amount to much.

But how did we get ourselves into this? There were no great principles involved. I mean, you judge a war according to who is in the right as long as you have no interest in the outcome; if you're one of the participants, or if the result is going to have a major effect on you, then you have to create the moral principles that put you in the right—that's nothing new, everyone knows it. But this one was so raw. No one could even come up with a good mask to put over it. It was over land, and power, and who got to expand where, without even the thinnest veneer of anything else.

Those veneers can be important when you're marching down toward rows of nasty pointy things.

Baritt died, that's what started it all. And Morrolan convinced me to set up a trap to find out who would be likely to steal what I preferred not to come anywhere near. Kragar, my lieutenant in the organization, looked worried when I told him about it, but I'm sure even he, who knew Dragons better than I ever would, had no clue how it would end up.

"What if someone does steal one, and you find out who," he said, "and it turns out to be someone you don't want to mess with?"

"That, of course, is the question. But it seems unlikely to be a Jhereg behind it."

"No, Vlad, it will be a Dragon. That's the problem."

Well, he was a Dragon; he should know. No, he wasn't a Dragon, he was a Jhereg, but he should still know. He had once been a Dragon, which meant—what?

I studied Kragar. I knew him better than I knew anyone I didn't know at all. We'd worked together as enforcers when I first entered the Jhereg, and we'd been working together ever since. He was the only Dragaeran I didn't hate, except maybe Kiera. Come to think of it, I didn't understand her, either.

Kragar was courageous, and timid, warmhearted, and vicious, and easygoing, and dedicated, and friendly, and utterly ruthless; as well as having the strange ability, or shortcoming, to blend into the woodwork so completely one could be staring right at him without realizing he was there.

I couldn't remember a single idea of mine that he hadn't thrown cold water on, nor a single one that he hadn't backed me on to the hilt—literally, in some cases.

"What is it?" he said.

"I was ruminating."

"Shouldn't you do that in private?"

"Oh, is someone here?"

"You're a riot, Vlad."

"In any case," I said, picking up the conversation from where it was lying in the middle of the floor, "there's a lot of money in it."

Kragar made a sound I won't attempt to describe. I could sense Loiosh holding back several remarks. It seems I surround myself with people who think I'm an idiot, which probably says something deep and profound about me.

"So," I said, "who do we put on it?"

"I don't know. We should probably go over there ourselves and look things over."

"I was afraid you'd say that."

He gave me a puzzled glance that went away quickly. There are matters on which Dragaerans and humans will never understand one another, and soul-killing weapons are, evidently, one of those. I mean, they hate them as much as or more than we do; but Dragaerans don't usually have the sort of overwhelming dread that such weapons inspire in a human. I don't know why that is.

"How do we get there?"

"I'll hire a coach."

Baritt had lived in a square, grey stone building on the outskirts of Adrilankha, in the hills to the west. He probably called it a castle. I could call my tunic a chair if I wanted to. It had three stories, a large front door, a couple of servants' entrances, a few glass windows, and a sharply sloped roof. His estate struck me as too rocky, and the soil too sandy, to be good for much. There was peasant activity, but not a great deal. There were a pair of guards in front of the main door, in the livery of the House of the Dragon. As Kragar and I approached, I saw one was wearing the same emblem that Morrolan's people sported; the other had a badge I didn't recognize.

I rehearsed the conversation I was about to have with them. I won't share it with you because the actual conversation disrupted my plans.

"Baronet Taltos?" said the one wearing Morrolan's badge.

I nodded.

"Please enter."

Trust me: The conversation I'd been prepared for would have been much more fun to relate. But there was compensation. The guard said, "Wait—who is he?" noticing Kragar for the first time.

"My associate," I said, keeping my chuckle on the inside.

"Very well," he said.

I glanced at the other guard, who was busy being expressionless. I wondered who he worked for.

Kragar and I passed within.

Rarely upon crossing a threshold have I been struck by such a sensation of entering a different world—I mean it felt as if between one step and another I had left Dragaera and entered a place at least as foreign as my Eastern ancestral homeland. The first surprise was that, after passing by the stone entryway of the stone house, you reached a foyer that was full of blown glass—vases, candelabra, empty decanters, and other glasswork were displayed on dark wooden pedestals or in cabinets. The walls were painted some color that managed to squeak in between white and yellow where no color ought to live, making everything seem bright and cheery and entirely at odds with any Dragonlord I'd ever met or heard of—and certainly with the Baritt I'd met in the Paths of the Dead.

My reverie was interrupted by Kragar saying, "Uh … Boss? Where are we going?"

"Good question." Most sorcerers would work either in a basement, where it's most reasonable to put any heavy objects they might need, or up in a tower, where there is less risk of wiping out the whole house if something goes wrong. In Baritt's case, probably some random room in a random place because it was convenient.

Loiosh moved nervously on my shoulder. We left the foyer and entered a sitting room of some sort, with more blown glass and decanters just like the others except full. On the wall to my left was a large oil of Baritt, looking imposing and dignified. There was a small door at the far end that should have led to the kitchen, and hallways heading off to the right and the left; one would presumably lead up a set of stairs to the bedchambers, the other to the rest of this floor. We took the one to the right and found a wide, straight stairway of polished white stone. We went back and tried the other hall, which looked more promising.

"Hey, Boss."

"Yeah, Loiosh?"

"There's something funny. I'm getting a feeling. It's like—"

"We're being watched, Vlad," said Kragar.

"Not really surprising," I said.

"I noticed first."

"Shut up."

"Ignore it, I think," I told Kragar. "It would be odd if no one had any surveillance spells. Should we try that door?"

"The big ironbound one with the rune carved on it, barred by a pair of Dragonlords with spears crossed in front of it? Why should it be that one?"

"You're funny, Kragar. Shut up, Kragar."

"Who are you, and what is your business?" said one of the guards, standing like a statue, her spear not moving from its position in front of the door.

"You know both answers," I told her.

She twitched a smile, which made me like her. "Yeah, but I have to ask. And you have to answer. Or you could leave. Or I could kill you."

"Baronet Taltos, House Jhereg, on an errand from Lord Morrolan, and for a minute there I liked you."

"I'm crushed," she said. Her spear snapped to her side; her companion's also moved, and the way was clear. She said, "Be informed that there is a teleport block in place around the house in general, and that it has been strengthened for that room."

"Is that a polite way of telling me not to try to steal anything?"

"I hadn't intended to be polite," she said.

I said, "Let's go."

"After you," said Kragar. Both guards twitched and then looked at him, as if they hadn't noticed him before, which they probably hadn't. Then they pretended they'd seen him all along, because to do anything else would have been undignified.

There didn't seem to be any way out of it, so I pulled back the bolt and opened the door.

There's a story, probably apocryphal but who cares, about Lishni, the inventor of the fire-ram. It seems he invented it out of desperation, having no other way for his flotilla of six cutters to escape a fleet of eight brigs and two ships of the line that had cut him off during what started as a minor action in one of the wars with Elde. As the story goes, after arming his cutters with his new invention, he went out, sank seven of the ten ships and damaged the other three, then, in another moment of inspiration, took his crews ashore, captured the Palace, and forced an unconditional surrender that ended the war right there. As he walked out of the Palace with the signed surrender in his hand, one of his subordinates supposedly asked him how he felt. "Fine," he said.

As I say, I very much doubt it happened like that, but it's a good story. I bring it up because, if someone had asked me how I felt when I walked into a room full of more Morganti weapons than I had thought existed in the world, I'd have said, in the same way, "Poorly."

"Boss … "

"I know, Loiosh."

The weapons were piled everywhere. It was like stepping into a room full of yellowsnakes. I could feel the two Dragonlords behind me, and even the knowledge that I was showing fear in front of them couldn't propel me forward.

"This is pretty ugly, Vlad."

"Tell me about it, Kragar."

"I wonder what he wanted them for."

"I wonder why the Serioli invented them in the first place."

"You don't know, Vlad?"

"No. Do you?"

"Sure. Well, I know what they say, at least."

"What do they say?"

"Back before the beginning of the Empire they were invented by a Serioli smith in order to make war so horrible no one would fight anymore."

I snorted. "You're kidding. Do you believe they could be that stupid?"

"Oh, but it worked."

"Huh?"

"Among the Serioli."

"Oh."

"Shall we go in?"

"I don't think I can."

"That's a problem."

"Yes."

We stood there like idiots for a little longer.

"Should we leave, then?" he asked.

"No, dammit."

"All right."

Hours and hours went by. All right, maybe a minute. The worst part was knowing those Dragonlords were right behind me. Showing fear in front of a Jhereg is bad business; showing fear in front of a Dragon hurts my pride.

Kragar said, "I have an idea."

"Good," I said. "I accept. An excellent idea. Whatever it is."

"This will take a couple of minutes."

"Even better. You think I'm in a hurry?"

Kragar's brow wrinkled. I suspected psychic contact.

"All right," he said. "He'll be here."

"Who?"

"Someone who can help. I met him some years ago when I was—it doesn't matter."

He might as well have completed the sentence. Kragar wasn't born into the Jhereg—he'd once been a Dragonlord himself—and whatever reasons he had for not being one anymore were his own business.

"What's his name?"

"Daymar. He's a Hawklord."

"All right. How can he help?"

"Psychics."

"What about them?"

"He's very good. He can do things with the powers of his mind that skilled sorcerers can't do using the power of the Orb. He—just a minute." He stepped out of the room for a moment and spoke quietly with the guards. When he returned, there was a thin, sharp-featured Dragaeran with him, all in black, with a sort of dreamy, vague expression on his face that was quite at odds with his features and with other Hawklords I'd known.

"Hello, Kragar," he said in a low, quiet voice.

"Hello, Daymar. This is my boss, Vlad."

He bowed politely, which also set him apart from others of his House. "Pleased to meet you," he said.

"And you," I told him.

He studied the room. "Very impressive," he said. "I've never seen so many at once."

"I was thinking much the same thing," I said.

Kragar said, "Can you, uh, tone them down a little? Vlad is a bit sensitive to their aura."

He turned to me with a look of curiosity. "Really? That's interesting. I wonder why?"

I refrained from saying, "Because I'm an Easterner with a superstitious dread of the damned things"; instead I just shrugged.

"Mind if I find out what it is about you that—"

"Yes," I said.

"All right," he said, appearing to be a little hurt. Then he looked around the room again. "Well," he said, "it shouldn't be difficult," and, just like that, I felt better. Not good, mind you, but better—it was as if they were still out there, and still hungry, but much farther away.

"How did you do that?" I said.

Daymar frowned and pursed his lips. "Well," he said, "if we consider the aura emitted by each weapon as a spherical field of uni—"

"Psychics," said Kragar.

I walked into the room as if there was nothing to it, and began looking around. Kragar and Daymar stayed behind me.

The weapons were a bit more arranged than I'd first thought—they were stacked, rather than just lying around, and they were all in sheaths or scabbards—I tried not to think of how it would feel if they'd been naked. I couldn't, however, discern exactly what the order or arrangement was.

"The most powerful are at this end," said Daymar conversationally, "and the weakest are down there. That's a Jhereg on your shoulder, isn't it?"

"Psychics," I said. "And a keen eye for detail as well," I added.

"Excuse me? Oh, that was irony, wasn't it?"

"Sorry. I'm a bit jumpy."

"Oh? Why?"

I glanced at Kragar, who, it appeared, was gallantly attempting not to smile. I left the question hanging and tried to look like I was studying the weapons, while simultaneously not really looking at them. This isn't easy, and it didn't work—they kept assaulting my mind, Daymar's psychic ability notwithstanding.

"How do you link to it?"

"Excuse me?"

"The Jhereg. You must have some sort of psychic link to it. How—"

"Witchcraft," I said.

"I see. Does it involve—?"

"I don't care to discuss it."

"All right," said Daymar, looking puzzled and maybe a little hurt once more. I wasn't used to running into Dragaerans who had sensitive feelings.

"So," said Kragar. "Any ideas on how to go about this?"

I glanced at him again, and he flushed a little—whoever this Daymar was, I wasn't prepared to discuss my business in front of him, and Kragar ought to have known that.

"What are you trying to do?" said Daymar.

"It's hard to explain," I said.

"Oh, well then—" he said, and, as I was still looking at Kragar, I saw a startled look spread over his features.

I said, "What—"

"Mind probe, Boss. A really, really, good one. And fast. That guy—"

I picked up the weapon closest to me, a dagger, and pulled it from its sheath. I crossed the room, stopping in front of Daymar, about four feet away. I stared up at him, holding the weapon casually in front of me. I was no longer frightened of the thing; it was as if something had taken control of me, and that something was red and burning. I said, "Look, I appreciate your help, but if you ever mind-probe one of my people again, it'll be the last thing you ever do, in this life or any other. Is that clear?"

He seemed a little startled but not at all frightened. "Sorry," he said. "I won't do it again."

I turned away, took a deep breath, and sheathed the weapon. I never know what to say after I've intimidated someone; I ought to keep a list of tough-guy remarks.

"I do have a suggestion, however."

I turned around and stared at him, not quite sure what I was hearing.

"Boss, either you're losing your touch or this guy is really stupid."

"Well," continued Daymar, "since I know anyway … "

I gave Kragar a "What should I do about this?" look, and he returned a "Don't ask me" shrug.

I sighed. "All right, Daymar. Let's hear it."

"Well, Morrolan thinks someone is going to try to steal these weapons, right? And you—"

"Do you know Morrolan?" I said.

"Certainly. Why?"

"I just wondered. Go on."

"You want to trap whoever it is."

"Trap? Maybe. At least find the culprit, if there is one."

"I can set up a psychic trace that will let us identify anyone who steps in here."

"Sounds too easy," I said.

"No one guards against psychics."

"What about Kiera?"

"Who?"

"Never mind," I said. "If something is missing and we don't know how, Kiera took it."

"Then what?" put in Kragar.

"That's easy. We give up and report failure, which I should have done already."

"Sounds reasonable."

"Well?" said Daymar.

"All right," I said. "Do whatever you have to do."

"It's done," he said.

"I believe him, Boss. Something happened."

I graced Kragar with another look. In case I've failed to communicate it, I wasn't entirely comfortable with how things had worked themselves out, and Kragar presented an easy and not unreasonable target; he accepted the role with good grace.

Loiosh said, "Don't worry, Boss; it'll all work perfectly. No, really."

I turned to Daymar. "How does it work?"

"If any of those weapons are moved from this room, I'll receive a psychic impression of whoever moved it."

"Then what?"

"Whatever you want. I can put you in touch with him, or get a location—"

"You can? You can?"

"Why, yes," he said, looking slightly startled. "Is something amiss?"

I don't know why I should have thought we'd be done with him. Wishful thinking, I suppose.

"All right," I said. "I think we can say we've done all we have to here. Let's go."

"Where are we going?" asked Daymar.

I started to answer, bit it off, gave Kragar a pleading look, and made my escape. Whatever Kragar said must have worked; at least Daymar didn't follow us back to the office.

That day, I was prepared to call even that a victory.

We had closed a good share of the distance between us before they broke into a run. I'd thought (insofar, that is, as I'd been thinking at all) that they were going to stop, take a defensive position, and wait for our attack, as we'd done when they'd charged us, and on reflection, they probably should have. They had spears, and if they'd just held steady and stuck them out, it would have been ugly for us. But that wasn't how they played it—they came right at us, maybe hoping we'd back down, turn, and run. Strategically a bad move, psychologically sound. Or, to put it another way, seeing them coming at us scared the shit out of me, a feeling mitigated only by the nasty pleasure of knowing how it felt to charge up a hill.

But there was no way we could stop, you see; the juice-drum was rattling around us, we were already moving, and we'd become a juggernaut, plowing forward, bristling with points, and at a certain stage I stopped feeling fear. I stopped feeling anything. I just went ahead and did it because there was nothing else to do. Even my own mission, my private plans and intentions, went out of my head, and the means became the end: I was advancing because my company was advancing, and when we met them we'd destroy them because that was what we did. It was never my job, but for a while, as I said, that didn't occur to me.

It was all different. I don't mean this battle in particular, but battle in general. I still wasn't used to it. Did anyone ever get used to it? If so, how? Except someone like Napper, and he was nuts.

I'd known battle would be different from assassination, and even different from the street brawls I'd been forced into from time to time, but knowing it and living it are not the same. I'm used to cold, but battle is hot; I'm used to precision, but war is chaos; I'm used to trying to kill, but this kind of fighting involved trying to stay alive.

The sound of footsteps, my own and my comrades', blended with the juice-drum, then overpowered it and became a rhythm that I picked up in my head to the echo of "Why? Why? Why? Why?" which was far too philosophical for the moment. We hardened soldiers, you see, are philosophical in camp, but very practical in the field. That was something else I learned. In camp, you have to be philosophical, or crazy, or funny, or nasty, or something, just to keep yourself from going out of your head while you're waiting for another chance to be a hero. It's a means of passing the time. That is one similarity between Dragons and Jhereg I can't deny: we know how to wait.

Another is that we don't like waiting. For my part, if something is going to happen, I'd just as soon that it happened quickly. With that in mind, I suppose you could say I got lucky way back at the beginning of all this, when I tried to carry out Morrolan's mission: I didn't have to wait. We heard from Daymar the very morning after we set the psychic trap.

I was just settling into my chair and enjoying the rare pleasure of an empty desk; if there's something on the desk, it usually means there is something I ought to be doing. I was about to have my secretary bring me some klava when Kragar, whom I had not noticed enter my office, said, "Someone stole one of the weapons, Vlad."

"Melestav!" I called. "Please bring me some klava."

"Right away, Boss," he answered from the next room.

Kragar began again, "Vlad—"

"I heard you. I'm going to pretend I didn't. I'm going to have some klava. Then you can tell me about it."

"If you want it directly, I could have Daymar—"

"No."

"Let me see if I understand. Do I take it you don't want Daymar to—"

"Kragar, shut up and let me drink my klava. Then you can be funny. If you try to be funny before I've had my klava, I will probably have to kill you, and then I'll be sad."

"Ah. Well. I wouldn't want you to be sad."

I squeezed my eyes tightly shut. When I opened them Kragar was gone. A little later Melestav tiptoed in, set a steaming cup in front of me, and tiptoed out again.

"Well, we're in some kind of mood today, aren't we, Boss?"

"I was fine when I got here."

I drank my klava slowly. There is a perfect way to position the lips on the cup to take in just the right amount of klava to avoid burning yourself. Everything comes with practice. I reflected on practice and on annoyance and I drank my klava and then I called for Kragar.

"Okay," I said. "Let's have it."

"I got word from Daymar this morning that his psychic alarm had been tripped sometime last night. He says it failed to wake him, for which he sends his apologies—"

"Apologies? I didn't think he did that."

"—and suggests that the thief must be quite accomplished."

"All right. We'd best head over and see what was taken."

"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 nothing 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 twitched 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.

My eye kept returning to those tentacles, however, as if they were a puzzle that might be solved, revealing—what?

"Dragons are more complex than they seem, aren't they, Boss?"

"I was just thinking the same thing."

"Especially Morrolan."

"Yes."

"Did you notice what he didn't ask about?"

"Yes. He never asked about the weapon that was stolen."

"You're not as stupid as they say, Boss."

"Save it, Loiosh. Instead, tell me what it means."

"That he already knew about the theft. Which means when we were setting that trap, we weren't doing what we thought we were. Although what we were doing I couldn't guess."

"Yeah. Maybe. Or it might mean something else entirely."

"What else?"

I studied those tentacles again—random patterns that, somehow, made a kind of sense.

"That he knew there was a particular weapon that would be stolen, which means the theft wasn't just a test or trial, but accomplished what it was supposed to, and there's more to that weapon than we'd thought there was. Which would make sense, of course. Or Kragar's idea: It didn't matter what was stolen; the idea was to annoy Morrolan enough to start a war, just because he wanted a war. In fact, we were probably wrong about everything and, no doubt, still are. Whenever we come to a conclusion, we should just assume we're wrong and go from there."

Loiosh was silent for a moment. Then he said, "I like the artist."

"So do I," I said. "Come on. Let's go home."

I turned my back on the wounded Dragon and walked out of Castle Black.

Sethra Lavode once gave me a brief history of battle-magic, but I don't remember a whole lot of it; it wasn't important at the time, and my acquaintance with her was new enough that I was thinking less about what she said than the fact that she was saying it. I do remember bits and pieces, however. Between what she said and what I subsequently learned from Morrolan and Aliera, I can give you a very rough overview. It goes something like this:

The earliest practical spells were reconnaissance and illusion; both very powerful, but easily countered. Later there were means developed of creating mass destruction, and all sorts of effort went into protecting one's army. Defense eventually outstripped offense to the point where a soldier could usually consider himself safe from any direct sorcerous attack as long as he wasn't carrying too much metal. It was somewhere in here that armor went by the board, except that some used (and still use) wooden armor, and wooden shields are still common, and warriors in the House of the Lyorn still wear copper or bronze vambraces to prove that they are fearless or stupid—two conditions I've never been able to tell apart.

Various methods were created for allowing the foot soldier to carry pre-prepared offensive spells into battle, and these, too, got stronger and more sophisticated, until some big battle, the name and date of which I didn't pay much attention to, where some sorcerer found a means of making every one of the enemy's "flashstones" blow up in his hand—which added a whole new level of spell and counter-spell, and made the common foot soldier leery about having anything to do with sorcery.

Offensive spells, after that, got bigger, more powerful, more sophisticated again, and often involved sorcerers working together to send huge, powerful spells capable of wreaking havoc on an entire force, and so, again, countermeasures were developed until battle became more a test of the skills of sorcerers than of soldiers and generals. This reached its peak just before the Interregnum with a Dragonlord named Adron, about whom the less said the better.

The Interregnum threw all of that out, and war returned to the proper mayhem of soldiers slaughtering each other like gentlemen, and since the end of the Interregnum the sciences of mass destruction have slowly been building up again, with the difference that, sorcery being now so much more powerful, it is hard to find a soldier incapable of some sort of sorcerous attack, and almost impossible to find one incapable of defending himself against sorcery. But the concentration required to cast a spell, or to defend against one, is concentration that isn't being used to avoid the sharp thing someone is likely swinging at you. All of which means that, for the most part, sorcery is beside the point. At least for now. Check back again in twenty or two hundred or two thousand years and you're likely to find a different answer.

To put it another way: In the early days of the Empire, when sorcery was simple and weak, it had little effect on battle; now, in the latter days of the Empire, when sorcery is powerful and sophisticated, it has little effect on battle.

Except, of course, against Easterners, who are helpless against it.

This, at any rate, was how Sethra had explained it before I began my brief military career. In the battle, her words seemed more important and far less accurate; the enemy kept sending nasty spells at us, and sometimes they'd kill someone, and several times they almost killed me.

I hated that.

I would not have needed the lecture to understand what it all meant to the common foot soldier: It meant that, every once in a while one of your comrades would fall over, dead and twitching, with no visible sign of what had happened; that rather more frequently someone would go down, killed or wounded, after being hit by what looked like nothing more than a faint reddish light; and that, even while engaged in hand-to-hand fighting, you had to be aware that someone could be targeting you for something unhealthy.

At least, since the enemy was charging us, they couldn't throw javelins at us, and the spells became fewer as we clashed. The first few seconds after the lines meet is the most intense time of the battle; it is more intense, to the warrior, that is, than the inevitable crisis point where the battle is decided. The first few seconds are when you don't have to do any thinking; later the action gradually slows down, or seems to, until eventually you have time to let your fear catch up to you. As I said, I remember little of that first clash, but the thing I remember most is the sound of ten thousand steel swords thudding into ten thousand wooden shields, and the occasional clang and scrape of sword against spearhead. No, it wasn't really that many, it just sounded like it. Loiosh probably made some smart remarks. It is often a blessing to forget.

I remember noticing that Aelburr was somehow on his feet again, wounds notwithstanding, and swinging away with a will; and I caught a glimpse of Napper, being happy about the only time he ever was, which irony was lost on me because I'd grown used to it. It's amazing what you can grow used to with sufficient provocation, but irony, an old friend of mine, is just no good except at a distance. I wasn't catching any irony at the time, though now I can realize how ironic it is that, in spite of all my worry, and in spite of Kragar's comments, and in spite of Morrolan's hints, I almost certainly would have been done with the whole business when the messenger arrived with my payment the day after I made my report to Morrolan.

I would have been, if.

They showed up at my flat shortly after I returned from the office after speaking with Morrolan. I opened the door in answer to an imperious clap. There were three of them, all men, all Dragonlords, and two of them were armed. The third said, "Your name is Taltos." He pronounced it as if he'd seen it written but never heard it, from which I could draw conclusions that were, no doubt, useful for something.

"More or less," I told him. Loiosh flew over and landed on my shoulder. I was worried, and even a bit frightened. I don't worry much about opening my door, because the Jhereg considers one's home sacrosanct; but who knows what Dragons think?

"My name is Ori. My Lord the Count of Fornia requests and requires you not to interfere in any way in his concerns. This is the only warning you will receive. Is that understood?"

I took a moment to work that through. Fornia knew that I was involved. Okay. And he was warning me to stay out of the way. What did he imagine I was going to do? And why was he even bothering to threaten me?

It was puzzling as well as annoying, but the annoyance predominated. Three Dragonlords—three, for the love of Verra, and one of them clearly a sorcerer, come into my home and tell me what to do? Even the Jhereg doesn't do that. Even the Phoenix Guard, when they're harassing the Jhereg, doesn't do that. If a Jhereg or a representative of the Empire wanted to threaten or intimidate me, they'd have the courtesy to call on me in one of my workplaces—say the office, or a restaurant, or an alley. This business of having my home invaded set me off, but I resolved to be diplomatic about the whole thing. I said, "What if I request and require the Count of Fornia to kiss my ruddy bum?"

Both of the Dragonlords drew their swords as best they could in the confined space of my entryway; at the same time they moved forward. An instant later they fell backward; one because there was a Jhereg in his face, the other because I'd thrown a knife into his shoulder.

Ori raised his hand, but I knew very well what it means when a Dragonlord isn't carrying a sword. At the same time as I'd thrown the knife (a boot knife, one of only four knives I was still carrying after disarming myself when I'd gotten home), I let Spellbreaker, about eighteen inches of gold chain, fall into my left hand. I set it spinning to intercept whatever he was about to throw at me.

Ori turned out to be pretty fast; some part of his spell got past, and I felt weak, dizzy, and I couldn't move the right side of my body. I let myself fall over and started rolling away from the door.

The effects of the spell were short-lived; I was able to stand and come up with another knife—this one a stiletto, not well suited to throwing—and start Spellbreaker spinning again. If Ori threw something else at me, the chain got all of it, and Loiosh was keeping the one Dragon pretty busy, but the other one, my knife still sticking out of his shoulder, had picked up his sword with his left hand and was charging me.

This was cause for some concern.

There was no way to parry his sword with my stiletto, so I did the only thing I could, which was to move in at him and hope to get past his attack.

I felt my knife strike home, and, at the same time, something hit me in the side, and then I felt the floor against my face. I did some calculations as I was lying there: Loiosh could handle the one, and, with luck, I had disabled the other at the same time as he'd gotten me, but there was still the sorcerer to worry about. I tried to roll over, and noticed that Spellbreaker was no longer in my hand; this is where I got really worried. I tried again to roll over, and I figured I must have succeeded because I was looking at the ceiling; that was a start. Only the ceiling was wrong, somehow. I tried to get up, wondering when the pain was going to hit me. Someone said, "Lie still, Vlad."

A woman's voice. Whose? I knew it, but I couldn't place it. But I was like Hell going to lie still. I tried to sit up again.

"Lie still. It's all right."

All right? What—?

Aliera e'Kieron came into view overhead.

"You're at Castle Black, Boss."

"Castle Black? How did I get here?"

"Morrolan came and got you."

"How did he—?"

"I told him."

"How could you—?"

"I wasn't sure I could."

"Am I ever going to be able to complete a—"

"How do you feel?" asked Aliera.

"Angry," I said. "Very, very angry. I would badly like to kill someone. I—"

"I mean, how do you feel physically?"

That was a tougher question, so I took some time to consider it. "All right," I finally said. "My side is a little stiff. What happened?"

"Someone cut you."

"Bad?"

"Fairly deep," she said judiciously. "No organs were damaged. Two ribs were cracked."

"I see. Considering all of that, I feel great. Thanks."

"Any pain?"

"Some."

"It'll get worse."

"All right."

"Would you like something for the pain?"

"Pain doesn't bother me," I told Aliera.

She didn't choose to be impressed.

I'd first run into Aliera in a wizard's laboratory, trapped inside a piece of wood, which had hindered our ability to get to know one another. Later, when she was breathing and talking and such, we'd been too busy for much chatting. I'd picked up that she was related to Morrolan—which wasn't surprising, because I imagine most Dragons are related to most others, one way or another. As far as I knew then (I learned more later, but that doesn't come into this story), she was fairly typical for a Dragonlord, except shorter. Evidently she had some abilities as a physicker.

"Who was it?" she asked.

"A Dragon," I said.

She nodded. "So Morrolan informs me. I meant more specifically."

"Someone in the employ of Fornia. There was a sorcerer named Ori; I didn't get the names of the blademen."

"What did they want?"

"They wanted me to stay out of their business."

She nodded as if it made perfect sense that this request involved attempting to cut me in half crosswise. I suppose it makes sense to me, too. And it might even have seemed reasonable if they hadn't walked into my home to do it. Maybe that doesn't make sense to you, and maybe it is even irrational, but I'd been in the Jhereg for several years, and to us, well, you just don't do that.

"Will you?" she said.

"Stay out of his business? Not anymore," I told her.

She laughed a little. Her eyes were light brown. "You sound like a Dragon."

"I'd challenge you to a duel, but that would just confirm your opinion, so I'll pass."

"Good thinking," she said.

I kept my anger under a lid because it works better that way, because I can use it that way. It was a very cold anger, and I knew that it would sustain me for quite some time—for long enough, at least, to track down this Fornia and do unto him.

But not now. Now I had to stay cool and recover. I took a deep breath and let my vision wander. The ceiling was of some very dark hardwood; my own was a textured plaster of some kind and much lower—the trained eye picks up these details almost instantly. There were other subtle things that had made me feel I might be in the wrong place when I first became conscious—like, my entire flat would nearly have fit into the room, and every item of furniture—three chairs, a desk, a table, and a sofa—cost more than I made for killing a man.

I said, "What do you know of this weapon Fornia had stolen?"

"Why?"

"It seems to be the cause of all this unpleasantness; either the weapon, or the fact that he stole it, or … "

She waited. "Yes? Or?"

"Or something entirely different that I have no clue about. I always have to include that as one of the possibilities."

She looked at me. "Well, you seem to be out of danger, and I have better ways to spend my time than to be interrogated by a Jhereg, so you'll have to excuse me."

"Hugs and kisses to you, too."

She gave me a glance and floated out of the room. I carefully sat up, discovered that doing so hurt, and began looking around for my clothing.

"On the little table at the foot of the bed, Boss. You're going to need a new shirt, and your trousers have some bloodstains."

"All right. Feel like shopping?"

"Going to buy me something?"

"Like what?"

"Catnip."

"Catnip? Does catnip affect you? When did you—?"

"Probably not. But I don't want to eat it myself."

"Then why—?"

"Bait," said Loiosh.

"Funny, Loiosh. No, but maybe I'll buy you a set of opposable thumbs."

"Heh."

I was starting to lose count of the teleports to and from Castle Black over the last couple of days; but I had another done for me, and then went to South Adrilankha, the Easterners' quarter, where I replaced a few items of clothing and supped. I stopped by my grandfather's for a visit, but he was out. I returned to my own area, found a sorcery supply store that was still open, and started to buy a mild painkiller, but then changed my mind and bought a strong one. I also picked up an enchanted dagger because the spells on my own were wearing thin and you never know when you might need a spell in a hurry. The guy at the store explained that the enchantments on the blade were so powerful that three people I'd never heard of had been in awe of it, and so on until I shut him up and bought the thing for half of what he had first asked.

Then I went home, took the painkiller, and started cleaning up the damage to my flat. There were no bodies there, but there were some bloodstains. I resent bloodstains in my home, especially when some of the blood is mine. I became angry all over again. I got rid of the stains by covering them with a rug, then I picked up some furniture that I don't remember being overturned, and may have done a bit more before the painkillers hit and, apparently, I made it to the bed before falling asleep.

A day in the life.

I woke up sore, moody, and in need of klava. If I ever get really rich, I'm going to hire a servant just to bring me klava in the morning. I managed to rise, make the coffee, and brew a fairly effective pot of klava, into which I poured some cow's milk and the last of the honey. I made a note to order more ice, no matter how expensive it was. I should really learn to make my own; cooling and heating spells are supposed to be pretty simple.

I was dressed and working up the energy to leave when someone clapped outside my door. Twice in two days would be stretching the laws of probability, so I wasn't worried; or, at least, I told myself I wasn't worried as I picked up a dagger and opened the door.

I didn't recognize the visitor, but she wore the colors of the House of the Dragon. I might have struck immediately if I hadn't noticed that she wore Morrolan's emblem on her shoulder, and if I hadn't been too stiff to move quickly. She said, "You are—?"

"Baronet Vladimir Taltos, House of the Jhereg."

"Then this is for you," she said, handing me a small bag that jingled. "If you'd be so kind as to touch this ring."

I touched the ring, took the bag, and shut the door as she turned away. I'd forgotten that Morrolan owed me money. I counted it and was pleased.

I thought about treating myself to a cabriolet ride to the office, but I'd be seen, and people would wonder why, and some of them might guess right. I also thought about taking more painkillers, but even a little would make me woozy, and that just won't do in this business; I had to be as stoic as I'd pretended to be to Aliera the day before.

Bugger.

I took the walk to the office slowly, not noticing much going on around me; when you hurt, too much of your attention is focused in to have much to spare for the rest of the world. I made it to the office, and Melestav greeted me with the words "You okay, Boss?"

"Yeah," I said. "Anything new?"

"A couple of requests for credit extensions, a request for a meeting from someone named Koth, nothing else."

I grunted. "Any idea what Koth wants?"

"To hire you."

"Thank him and put him off. I'm busy for the next Week, maybe two. I'll look at the requests later."

"All right."

"And tell Kragar I want to see him."

I hung up my cloak and eased myself into my chair. Then I leaned back and closed my eyes, and Kragar said, "You all right, Boss?"

"Fine," I said. "All things considered."

"All right. What things need consideration?"

"I got jumped."

I opened my eyes. I looked around the room for Kragar, then found him sitting in the chair opposite me. He was staring at me intently, suspecting, I suppose, that we were about to be involved in some affair within the Jhereg—like someone trying to make a move on my territory. I said, "I got jumped by three Dragonlords."

"Phoenix Guards?"

"No. The business wasn't connected with the Organization in any way. They were Dragonlords doing business as Dragonlords, and their business was jumping me."

He leaned back, and his expression altered from worry to surprise.

"Really? My, my. Now, that isn't something every Jhereg can say. Where did it happen?"

"Right in my own Verra-be-damned flat."

"Hmmm," he said. "Want to tell me about it?"

I did. He said, "To a Dragon, it's different—"

"I know. I'm not a Dragon."

"Ah." He studied me. "So now you've decided to go after Fornia?"

"Yes."

"Has it occurred to you that you may have been attacked in order to get you to go after him?"

"Yes. It has occurred to me. It is even possible. But do you think it likely?"

"I have no idea. But when we were talking before, you were saying—"

"I know. But it's one thing to be aware of complex strategies and lies that might be going on around you. It's another to let yourself become so worried about deception that you become paralyzed."

"Profound, Boss."

"Shut up, Loiosh."

Kragar shrugged. "All right. If you write that down, I'll save it for your epitaph."

"In the meantime, what do we do about Fornia?"

Kragar caught my eye. "There's always the obvious."

"Yes. I'd been thinking about that."

"And?"

"What do you think?"

"It'll be tricky."

"I know. You can't just put down a Dragonlord as if he were a nine-copper hustler. It'll get ugly. People will talk. But I want to."

"I can start doing some checking."

"That would be good."

"But you should be aware that Morrolan will be, uh, pretty unhappy."

I said, "Not that I care all that much, but why?"

"People will think he had it done."

"Oh. That isn't my problem."

"Are you sure?"

I considered. "Just how unhappy is Morrolan likely to be?"

"Very," said Kragar. "From everything I know, he'll set out to make your life either miserable or short. You'll probably have to fight him."

"Great," I said. "Well, is there anything we can do to Fornia short of killing him that wouldn't set Morrolan on my ass?"

"Hmmmm. Maybe."

"Yeah?"

"Well, I know what would really get to him: losing."

"Losing? Like, in battle?"

"Yeah."

"Great. Well, Morrolan is going to attack him. I could always enlist in the army. But somehow I can't imagine myself in uniform, marching off to battle." I really said that. Funny, isn't it?

Kragar said, "There are other ways."

"Oh? Keep talking."

He studied his right thumb. "I'm not sure I have anything definite yet. We don't know enough. But if Morrolan is really going to attack him—"

"He is. He plans to sign Sethra Lavode on as his general-in-chief."

Kragar gave an I-am-impressed look and said, "Then you could probably do something nasty to him to help Morrolan. There are a number of possibilities. An army is a great deal more delicate than you'd think. Just destroy a list of supplies he needs and you've created enough confusion to give him headaches. Or sneak in and burn a map or two. Or have someone impersonate an officer and send a company marching the wrong way. Or—"

"I think I get the idea."

He nodded. "Once we know more we can be more specific."

I shook my head. "I'm trying to imagine myself as some sort of—I don't know—saboteur."

"I'm trying to imagine it, too. And I'm trying not to laugh."

"Thank you so much."

He shrugged. "Well, so he got you mad, and you want to get him back. You're stuck. If you can come up with something better, let me know."

"I can still kill him."

"Yeah, there's that."

I said, "If you come up with a way to turn a profit on this, let me know."

"Oh, that's easy. Morrolan will probably pay you for it."

"Do you think so?"

"Well, that's something."

He shook his head. "Hasn't anyone ever told you that revenge is wrong?"

"No, Kragar," I said. "That got left out of my education."

"Too late now," he said.

The next thing I remember doing is dodging around, trying to stay alert and not get killed. The first clash was over, and there were a lot of dead and wounded around, but things had broken up a bit. I didn't see Virt or Aelburr anymore, but I caught a glimpse of Napper about twenty yards to my left, flailing about in fine style; I was sure he, at any rate, was enjoying himself. Our colors were still waving, but I didn't recognize the woman holding them; Dunn was either dead or wounded. I hoped he was happy; he'd gotten what he wanted.

There was nothing like a line of battle, but there were clumps of fighting here and there, and many of us, on both sides, who were either looking for someone to fight or hoping not to find someone. This is, I suppose, where spirit of battle really matters: If we'd had more of it, I'd have been trying harder to kill someone. If they'd had more of it, I wouldn't have been able to hang around the fringes of the fighting. At some point in there, I noticed fresh blood on my sword, and I wondered how it got there.

The trouble was: My comrades were fighting for each other. In part, to keep each other alive, and in part because they knew each other, had trained together, and none wanted to be the only one to bug out. I'd been through enough with them to know that that was the thing that kept them going; but I hadn't trained with them, and I didn't know them, and even by then I wasn't quite sure why I hadn't bugged out. I still didn't know what had kept me there the first time the enemy had come at us over hastily thrown-up earthworks.

There was a short breathing space, and I relished it—hell, I gloried in it. Strange, huh? I was in as much danger, perhaps, as I'd ever been in, and I remember how delighted I was that there were spaces of time when no one was trying to kill me. Long spaces of time—seconds on end.

Then Loiosh said, "Remember why we're here, Boss?"

"Damn you anyway."

"Boss—"

"No, no. You're right. I have a job to do."

"But how—"

"Oh, I know how." There was a little hillock, really just a rise in the ground, before me—just down the hill and up another. "I just have to get over that hill and spot their command post, which will be protected by the best warriors I've ever met and more sorcerous ability than you can find outside of Dzur Mountain. Then I have to finish up what I came here for. No problem."

"I know that. I meant how. Too bad we don't know any invisibility spells that will stand up."

"Too bad I'm not Kragar."

Someone stumbled in front of me. An enemy. He looked at me, and I looked at him. He had lost his shield somewhere, but held most of a spear. I don't think he'd been coming after me, the force of battle had just placed him there. He probably would just as soon have run away, and I'd just as soon he did, but, of course, neither of us could trust the other to be sensible. He whipped the remains of his spear toward me. I moved in, knocked his weapon aside with the strong of my blade, and cut him in the neck. He went down and I moved on. I don't know if I killed him. I hope I didn't.

I looked around, and I was as alone as I could be, under the circumstances.

I started down the hill at a trot.

"Quick march now, Boss."

"Oh, shut up."

I thought about how comfortable my office was. I thought about how pleasant it would be to be sitting there. I remember—now, I didn't think about it then—how Kragar left me alone in the office to think over the idea of working with Morrolan's army as some sort of spy or saboteur; I couldn't quite wrap my head around the idea, but at the time, I was angry enough not to care. I needed to sort all that out so I yelled out that I didn't want to be bothered for a while.

"Okay, Boss!" yelled Melestav. "Anyone wants to come in and kill you, I tell them to wait, right?"

"Yeah," I yelled back. "Unless they're Dragons. Any Dragons who want to kill me can come right in."

He didn't say anything. I had gotten in the last word on Melestav; that had to be a good sign.

I closed my eyes and thought about Morrolan. I pictured him, tall, thin, rather dark, a very slight hook in the nose, eyes deep and rather close together, a bit of slant to his forehead, and I imagined his voice, a smooth baritone, mellow, and forming words with an assumed elegance—

"Who is it?"

"Vlad."

"Yes?"

"Am I reaching you at a bad time?"

"Not as bad as ten minutes later would have been. Which reminds me: Do you prefer the blood of a reptile or a mammal when you want to set up a room so you know if it's been violated?"

"Your own blood is best for anything of that type, because you want it to come back to you. But you only need a drop; it's symbolic."

"Thank you. What is it you wish of me?"

"I want to know if I can be useful to you."

"You just were."

"Other than that."

"Exactly what do you meanl"

"Against Fornia. Could your army use someone able to sneak in and out of the enemy camp, cause annoyance, disruption—"

"You're taking this rather personally, aren't you, Vlad?"

"Yes."

"Are you certain you want to do this?"

"Well, no. Not entirely. I'm just considering it."

"I see. We should talk"

"I suppose so."

"Are you busy later this afternoon? Say, in a few hours?"

"I could get free."

"Then meet me … no offense, Vlad, but are you able to receive a teleport position!"

"Yeah, just barely, if you give me a lot of time to fix it."

"Then I'll give you one. Are you ready?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

"Here."

Okay, I knew how to do this; I'd even done it once or twice before. I made an effort to drop those little controls we always keep on our thoughts. I mentally framed a picture—in my head, I always have big elegant gold frames—then thought of the space within as black. I held onto it and moved it around until it was mentally facing out, facing the imaginary direction of my psychic link with Morrolan. It gradually acquired color that I hadn't put into it, and details formed, until, in only a minute or two, I was seeing a place: the bottom of what appeared to be a cliff, a small stream before it, a few evergreens nearby. I couldn't tell how high the cliff was from what Morrolan was showing me, but it seemed to be large, and I certainly would have no desire to attempt to scale it: It seemed perfectly sheer, and grey, and, if you'll permit me, ominous. The ground was rocky and brown, with a few sparse bits of grass sticking up here and there; the stream, as far as I could tell, was little more than a trickle of water.

I concentrated; as I'd told Morrolan, I wasn't all that good at fixing locations for a teleport, but at last I felt reasonably certain I wasn't likely to send myself off to the middle of the ocean or forty feet under the ground. I said, "Got it."

"The seventh hour."

"Why there?"

"There will be an event taking place that you may wish to witness."

I thought about interrogating him some more, but decided it was pointless. "I'll be there," I told him.

"What do you suppose that was about, Boss?"

"I imagine I'll find out."

"Do you trust him?"

"Within limits. I doubt he wants to have me killed."

"Oh, good. Nothing to worry about, then."

I handled a few things around the office, then went down into what I called the "lab" and performed a very minor and easy ritual to help along the healing in my side—just a few instructions to the damaged parts suggesting they go ahead and heal; the indication of success was how hungry I was after, so I went over to the Garden House and had a big plate of egg noodles with squid and leeks to help the process along. Then I headed to Turningham's and looked for a book, found a historical romance by Munnis that I hadn't read, bought it, went home, read the first page, and set it aside for later. I discovered I was hungry again, and that my side was itching and feeling better, all of which meant my spell really was working. I've performed spells of that type, oh, I don't know, maybe a score of times, yet I still get a little thrill, almost of surprise, when I see evidence of it working; like I'm putting one over on nature.

I ate some bread and cheese, took a nap, and Loiosh woke me up a few minutes before the seventh hour.

I managed the teleport myself, without too much difficulty, and arrived right at the appointed hour. The spot at which Morrolan had me appear was a quarter of a mile away from a mass of humanity, all gathered together directly in front of the sheer cliff, which stretched up until its top was lost in the overcast. It was much bigger than I had guessed. I studied it until my neck hurt, then, as my gaze returned to what appeared to be a gathering of several hundred people, at which I could see new arrivals teleporting in at an alarming rate, Loiosh made a squeaking sound and dived into my cloak.

"What—?"

"Didn't you see them, Boss?"

"No, I was looking at—"

"Giant Jhereg, just like at Deathgate Falls."

"We can't be anywhere near there."

"Tell them that."

I looked up again, and, yeah, there were a few shapes that occasionally dipped out of the overcast, circled, and vanished again.

"They're very graceful, Loiosh. You should watch."

"You should drown in a chamberpot, Boss."

"Greetings, Vlad."

I jumped a little, then turned around and said, "Hello, Morrolan. What's the occasion?"

"A ceremony to honor Baritt's passing over Deathgate Falls."

"What? We're near there?"

"No. But his tomb will be here."

"His tomb? I don't … how can he have a tomb if his body is going over the Falls?"

"Well, it's not a tomb exactly. Call it a cenotaph. Or a monument. But this mountain has been selected as the place to be consecrated to his memory."

"He gets a whole mountain?"

"He earned it."

"What do I have to do to earn a mountain?"

Morrolan chose not to answer. He said, "I should appear at the ceremony. Would you like to come along?"

"Is that a joke? As what?"

"My retainer. I have the right to have anyone I choose in my suite."

"An Easterner? A Jhereg?"

"Certainly."

"You have something in mind, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Want to let me in on it, in my capacity as the device to be exploited?"

"I'd rather surprise you."

"I'm not all that fond of surprises."

"I understood that you wanted to exact payment from our friend Fornia for what he did to you."

"Yeah."

"Well then, come along and let's do so."

I sighed. "All right, lead on. But … skip it."

He led the way. As we approached, I spotted Aliera off to one side; she stood out as the shortest individual in the crowd. She spotted us and waved. A few others noticed us; I caught some double takes, and suspected I was now the object of a great deal of conversation among a few score Dragonlords. I had mixed feelings about this, but it wasn't all unpleasant. Morrolan, who had brought me, after all, was wearing the dexter half of a smile.

I said, "You enjoy being talked about, don't you?"

He smirked outright, but gave no other answer.

We reached Aliera, who nodded to me and looked a question at Morrolan, who said, "He is considering joining our cause."

"Against Fornia?" I nodded, and she said, "You're taking this a little personally, aren't you?"

"I think I will soon begin to take personally everyone telling me I'm taking things personally."

"Do that," she said. Then, to Morrolan, "But why bring him here?"

"I have reasons, my dear cousin. A little patience and you will know."

I could see Aliera deciding whether to take offense; eventually she gave a hint of a shrug and turned away. I was standing in quite a crowd of Dragons, many of whom were giving me looks; more of whom were glancing at Morrolan. He appeared to be enjoying the attention. I spotted a familiar figure: Ori. He was looking at me.

"Vlad!" said Morrolan sharply.

"What?"

"This isn't the place."

I almost asked "For what?" before I realized that my hand was on my sword hilt. It took a deliberate effort to drop my arm back to my side. Ori was standing next to a very old Dragonlord, who had dressed himself in the simplest military fashion: black everything with buttons and hems of silver. His face was wrinkled as a prune, and his slitted eyes were studying me.

I said, "Fornia?"

"Yes," said Morrolan.

I studied the man, then turned once more to Morrolan. "Well, here you both are."

"Yes?"

I shrugged. "Why don't you just kill him?"

He graced me with a scaled-down smile. "There are more reasons than I have time to expound upon."

"Name three."

"All right. One: We are at a ceremony where violence would be improper. Two: If I initiated violence at this ceremony, everyone would take his side and we'd be outnumbered about three hundred to one. Three: I want to see what happens if he's left alone."

I grunted. The second answer seemed convincing enough. And what happened was that Fornia and Ori approached us. Morrolan bowed deeply, Fornia acknowledged; I assume the difference in the bows had to do with respective age. Fornia looked me over and said to Morrolan, "What is he doing here?"

"Taking your measure, Lord Fornia. He seems to have developed a grudge against you, and I permitted him to accompany me so that he might get a good look at you. For later," he added.

"I've just explained to him why he ought not to do anything improper just at the moment."

This seemed to be my cue, so I gave Fornia a big smile.

Fornia turned his head and spat.

I said, "In the desert culture of my people, to spit in a man's presence is to demonstrate loyalty. Am I to assume that you are my vassal?"

"You're making that up, aren't you, Boss?"

"What do you think, Loiosh?"

Ori said conversationally, "I should have killed you."

"Yes," I said promptly. "You should have. Your mistake. You won't be permitted another."

He took a step closer, so that he could look down on me. "Are you threatening me, Easterner?"

I grinned up at him. "Yes, but not as an Easterner; as a Jhereg. That's an entirely different matter, isn't it?" At that point Loiosh, who has always had a gift for theater, emerged from my cloak and climbed up to my shoulder.

Ori jumped, startled, in spite of himself, then he scowled. He said, "I will rip your soul from your body and bind it to an iron kettle so I can contemplate how your arse burns when I cook my stew."

"Good thinking," I said. "I know some excellent stew recipes if you need them. Adding a little fennel, for example, will—"

"That's enough, Vlad," said Morrolan.

"If you say so," I told him. "But I tell you, you Dragaerans don't know how to cook."

"Vlad—"

"Except for the occasional Lyorn, who seem—"

"Vlad!"

I shrugged and gave Fornia and Ori another big grin.

Fornia said, "I am not worried. You would not countenance assassination, Lord Morrolan."

"Of course not," said Morrolan. "And I assure your lordship I've been trying to talk my associate out of doing anything rash."

"Your veiled threats," said Fornia, "are as empty and absurd as your pet Easterner's coarse ones."

"Exactly," said Morrolan with a bow.

"If you want what is mine," said Fornia, "you may attempt to take it from me."

"Yours by right of theft, my lord?"

Fornia laughed. "You stand with a Jhereg at your heel and speak to me of theft?"

"You stand with a thug at your elbow and speak to me of Jhereg?"

"This is pointless," said Fornia, and turned away.

"So, as I understand it, is the weapon you've taken."

Fornia turned back, gave Morrolan a smile over his shoulder, then walked away, Ori trailing after him.

"And that, my dear Vlad," said Morrolan as soon as Fornia was out of earshot, "is what we came for."

"To bait him?"

"No, to see that smile."

"Oh. And what did you learn?"

"That whatever he was after, he got it."

"Excuse me?"

"The sword he took was what he was after, not a test, and not a failed effort at something else."

"But then, what is it?"

"I don't know."

"Morrolan, it was a very weak, very large, Morganti greatsword."

"No, it was more than that. Exactly what it is I still don't know, but more than that. I now know at least that much for certain."

"Because of that smile?"

"Because of that smile."

"If you say so. And, I take it, I was here to provide a basis for the sparring match?"

"That, yes, and to make him think. And maybe to worry him a little."

"If you worry him too much, he may decide you really do intend to have him assassinated, and he might beat you to the punch."

"He'd no more hire an assassin than I would."

"But Morrolan, you have."

"You know what I mean."

"Sure. But does he?"

"We've made our point here, Vlad. I must stay for the service, but you can return home if you wish. Or stay; it's up to you."

"What's going to happen?"

"Aliera will go forward and deliver a benediction, asking the Gods to receive Baritt's soul, and then his deeds will be related, and those who knew him will tell all manner of lies about what a fine fellow he was, and a bullock will be sacrificed to whoever his patron deity was—Barlen, if I'm not mistaken—and Aliera will perform another benediction, and then we'll all go home. It should take about ten hours."

"Ten hours?"

"More or less."

"Why Aliera?"

"It is her right and her duty."

"Why is that?"

"I assure you, Vlad, you don't need to know details of the internal politics of the House of the Dragon, nor would I be justified in telling you."

"All right. I guess I can skip the services."

"Very well. I'll be in touch."

"I imagine you will."

I walked away so I could perform my slow and clumsy teleport out of the sight of all those Dragonlords.

"Do you think he was telling the truth, Boss?"

"Who?"

"Morrolan."

"About what?"

"About why he brought you along."

"Oh. I imagine so. Why?"

"I think he was telling half the truth."

"All right. What's the other half?"

"He wanted you committed to helping him against Fornia."

I thought that over. "You're probably right," I said at length.

"It worked, didn't it, Boss?"

"Yeah, it worked."

Eventually we reached a large rock that I could step behind to perform the teleport. I never saw the services for Baritt. I hope they went well; I assume Aliera did a good job of whatever she was supposed to do. Actually, now that I think about it, I know why it is that it was Aliera's right and duty, but never mind; you don't need to know details of the internal politics of the House of the Dragon.

"What it comes down to, Loiosh, is that I just don't like the guy."

"Is that any reason to—"

"Of course it is. And if you say I'm taking this personally, I'll trade you in for a mockman and use its tail for a door-tapper."

"Heh."

I walked to the front of my flat, passed the bed, and opened the shutters on the window that looked down into the street. It was late evening, and as I watched the passersby I had the feeling that I was giving up the security of what I knew for a world in which I was ignorant and helpless as a newborn.

"Loiosh, no one's messed with my head, right?"

"I'm afraid not, Boss. This is all you."

"Just checking."

"You may want to visit your grandfather, Boss."

I felt a touch of annoyance, then sat on it. "You're right, chum. I will, before I actually do anything. But—"

"I know, Boss. You're committed."

"I hate being pushed around, that's all."

"But you don't mind being manipulated?"

"You talking about Morrolan?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, I mind. But he didn't have me beaten."

Loiosh fell silent, leaving me to think about it. I watched the people in the streets below me and thought about going out for a drink, then thought better of it. I touched my side, which was still a little sore, but getting better. In a day or two there would be nothing left of the beating I'd gotten except the memory.

"I'm going to take this guy down, Loiosh."

"I know you are, Boss."

I pulled the shutters closed.

There are, according to Sethra Lavode, in a brief conversation I got to listen to before I marched off to war, two basic schools of thought in terms of generalship: lead from the front, or lead from the rear. The former is better for morale but can have unfortunate consequences if your officer gets killed. The latter has many advantages in terms of communication and observation, but soldiers don't fight quite so well for a leader who is playing it safe. Sethra says that, really, it depends on circumstances, and a good general ought to be willing to lead either way when appropriate. In the case of our enemies, the officers in charge of brigades—a brigade being about three thousand strong, according to Sethra's intelligence reports—led from the front. The brigade size made sense, she explained, because that was about the largest number of soldiers who could hear the officer shouting orders. The other officers were in back, along with the chief of the sorcerers corps and whatever aides might be appropriate. The brigadier, as a compromise with safety considerations, tended to be surrounded by some elite group of warriors, dedicated to protecting him during the course of the battle. The higher ranking officers received similar protection, but they didn't need it as much—I suppose it was a status symbol the way having a lot of bodyguards is in the Jhereg.

The placing of sorcerers in battle also varies according to tastes of the general and needs of the situation, but, more often than not, sorcerers were attached to a brigade and hung around next to the brigadier. Thus, not only were the sorcerers able to receive orders quickly, but they could do a lot to protect the officer directing that part of the engagement.

Got all that?

I mention it because it flashed through my mind as I went over that hillock, behind the front line my company was engaged with, to seek out the command staff.

In other words, I was going to have to go up against an elite force of warriors as well as some number of sorcerers in order to accomplish my goal.

What was I doing here again? Oh yeah, I lost my temper and talked myself (I can't blame anyone else) into offering Morrolan my services, and he was rude enough to accept, that's what happened. And now—

And now things were moving, which is just what I'd wanted back then when everything came to a standstill. I got what I wanted; isn't that grand?

Still, as I said earlier, I don't enjoy waiting, and, especially after I've made a tough or questionable decision, I want things to be moving, and as usual when I want things to be moving, everything slowed down.

Nothing surprising there: Once you've determined to do something time is needed to make plans, gather materials, and put your plans into motion, all of which causes events to unfold too slowly; it's when you are forced into action before making a decision that things happen too quickly. Watching Morrolan and Sethra taught me that this is true in military matters, and I've always known it was true in my own life.

Or else it's just the universe being perverse; that's the other possibility.

Whichever, I spent several days having fruitless and aimless conversations with Morrolan, who agreed that I could be useful but was infuriatingly vague on the specifics. He seemed to understand without my saying it that I had become committed to helping him. This, in turn, increased my suspicion that the beating had been a setup on Morrolan's part to recruit me, and I retained that suspicion for some time, but I won't keep you in suspense: I eventually learned that Morrolan had nothing to do with it; the attack was just what it seemed.

Every once in while, a Dragon will do something obvious and direct that is no more than it appears to be. I think they do it to throw you off.

I met with Morrolan, Sethra, Aliera, and a pale Dragonlord I didn't recognize. Morrolan didn't perform any introductions. I didn't say anything, because I didn't know what to say and because I was still a bit intimidated to be in the presence of Sethra Lavode.

She spread out a map, pointed to a spot, and said, "We strike here, wait for a counterattack, and retreat this way, toward the Eastern Mountains."

There were nods around the table. I'd been there for about half a minute and I was already confused.

She went on, "Of course, if there is no counterattack, we continue this way, hit here, and here, and here, until there is one, then retreat as planned. If he should allow us all the way to here, we can lay a siege, but I can't imagine it playing out that way."

"What will be the organization?" said Morrolan.

"Divisions. Three of them. I want each self-contained, with its own infantry, cavalry, sorcerers, and engineers. The First Division will be mine, and will make the attack. The others will guard our flank and cover the retreat."

"Marching in column, then?" said Aliera.

"There are plenty of good roads leading into and out of the place; once we near the mountains we'll come back together to bivouac. Here." She pointed to another spot. "We can arrange for provender from the area along this route; we'll need to make arrangements if we're west of the Flatstone River, or north of Turtle. Who's doing logistics?"

"I will take personal charge," said Morrolan.

Sethra nodded. "Sorcery," she said.

The pale woman spoke. Her hair was very black, and her voice soft. "His lead sorcerer is named Ori—"

"Ori!" I heard myself say.

"What is it, Vlad?" said Morrolan.

"Nothing," I said, embarrassed. "Never mind."

The woman looked at me, or, rather, through me, then continued. "He is adept at reconnaissance spells; especially eavesdropping on councils. I have protected this meeting. We must always be careful to do so, and to avoid discussing our plans without protection. In battle he is unlikely to come up with anything we can't counter, but he'll keep throwing spells our way to keep our own sorcerers too busy to concoct anything big."

Sethra nodded. "Anything else?"

"Yes," said Aliera. "Why is he here?" She was looking at me.

Sethra turned to Morrolan, who said, "Because I wish it."

Aliera started to speak, then changed her mind and was silent. The meeting broke up; Aliera and the Dragonlord I didn't know left, Morrolan and Sethra spoke together quietly about details of supply, occasionally venturing off into matters of military theory that I cared about as little as I understood them, and I sat there staring at the map. It was a psiprint, like the one Melestav had shown me, but was more detailed and even cleaner.

Eventually Morrolan noticed that I was still there. "What is it, Vlad?" he said.

"Huh? Oh, nothing. I'm just looking at the map. I like maps."

"Very well. You have no questions?"

"Oh, I have a lot of questions, but I don't know if you feel like answering them."

"Like what?"

"Like why plan for a retreat?"

Morrolan looked expectantly at Sethra. She said, "I prefer a defensive fight when possible, especially when the numbers are close, and these will be. We might, in fact, be outnumbered overall."

"I see. Well, actually, I don't. What are we trying to do?"

This time Sethra looked expectantly at Morrolan. He said, "We need to curb his ambitions. This can best be done by handing his army a severe defeat. Sethra feels she can best do this by convincing him to attack us. We have an edge in our engineering corps—that is, we can construct quick and effective defenses better than he can. So we're going to invade, and invite him to attack, and then beat him."

"All right. I think I get it. And then, what, you expect him to return the sword he stole?"

"Maybe. We may have to negotiate after that."

"What's so special about that sword?"

"The fact that he wanted it."

"But, of all the weapons in that room, why did he take that one?"

Morrolan nodded. "That's what I want to know. I trust we'll find out eventually."

"I see." I considered. "Is there any more you can tell me about Baritt?"

"What do you want to know?"

"For starters, what were the circumstances of his death?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that."

"Great."

"If your task were to be easy," said Morrolan, "you wouldn't be earning such a large fee for it."

"Don't play games, Morrolan."

"It's not a game," he snapped, and looked at me through narrowed eyes; I suppose the look was intended to intimidate me. It worked. He started to say more, then, I guess, decided that he'd cowed me enough and didn't have to.

To change the subject, I said, "Who was the pale woman?"

"The Necromancer," he said. "She will be in overall charge of our sorcerers."

" 'The Necromancer,' " I said. "I've heard of her. Heck of a name. Will she raise the dead for us?"

"If necessary," said Morrolan. "But I could do that. If circumstances call for it, she can open a gateway for us that will bring us to a place where eternities pass in an instant, and where life and death have no meaning, and where space can only be measured by the twisting of one's soul. An effective escape, if things go wrong."

I was sorry I'd asked. "Could have used her in the Paths of the Dead," I suggested.

He didn't consider that worth a response.

I said, "I wish I knew what this was all about."

"War," he said.

"Yeah. Over what?"

"In part, whether he's going to keep pushing boundaries."

"Is he pushing yours?"

"Not yet. But he will, if he thinks he can get away with it."

"I see. What else?"

He hesitated. "All right, I'll tell you part of it. Baritt was feared as a sorcerer. He had a great deal of influence within the House and within the Empire. He was very good at getting what he wanted. Before the Interregnum, he was Imperial Sorcerer for a few hundred years. He defended himself against various attacks from various sources with amazing success. He … well, he was very good."

"All right, I'm with you so far."

"He was too good."

"Excuse me?"

"He did things he ought not to have been able to do. He stood off armies on his own. At one point he defied the Imperium and made it stick. Things like that."

"Sounds like you."

"Yes."

"Well?"

"I've been wondering for years how he did it. I've come to the conclusion that he had help."

"What sort of help?"

"That's the question, isn't it? Either the aid of a deity or something else."

"Such as?"

"Such as he possessed something. Something powerful. Perhaps an object of some kind—"

"Say, a sword?"

"Perhaps."

"Say, a Great Weapon?"

"That's my guess," said Morrolan. "Based on the fact that it was stolen."

I nodded. "And so, you go to war to get it, because you want it, and you don't want Fornia to have it." I thought, but didn't say, all of which is why you let him steal it in the first place.

"Yes," he said.

"And I go to war because he irritated me."

"Yes."

"I guess that makes sense. You think this, whatever it is, will give you any problems?"

"Fornia isn't stupid. I was protecting Baritt's household, and he violated it. He must have expected reprisals. He knows he is likely to be facing Sethra Lavode, Aliera e'Kieron, the Necromancer, and, if you'll excuse me, myself. He's a fool if he isn't worried about what we can do. That means he thinks he's up to facing us. He must have some reason for thinking so."

"Uh … I see your point. What do you think? Could he be right?"

"Maybe. Still interested?"

"Do you know the Jhereg saying about wizards and knives?"

"Yes. Do you know the Dragon saying about trying to drown water?"

"No, and I'd as soon not. It might be too subtle for me."

Morrolan looked inscrutable and said nothing.

I went back to my flat and, in spite of the stiffness in my side, threw knives at a piece of wood.

No one taught me how to throw knives. I remain convinced that there is a better way to learn. But what I did, a few years ago when I decided it was a good thing to know how to do, was this: I set up a piece of wood against a wall, and I bought a bunch of identical knives and positioned myself exactly nine paces away from the target—just about all I had room for at the time. And I just started throwing them as hard as I could. From the beginning my aim was pretty good; there wasn't much damage to the wall. But I must have thrown four hundred of the things, varying my grip slightly each time, until I got one to hit point first. Then I suppose I threw another couple of hundred until I got it to happen again. And so on.

I have no idea how many thousands of knives I threw at how many pieces of wood before I could regularly stick one in the thing—from exactly nine paces. Loiosh, of course, would periodically make helpful suggestions about how I could convince an enemy to position himself properly.

How long did it take me to learn to hit a target from any reasonable distance? That's easy: I still can't do it reliably. It's a lot harder than you'd think to get the damn thing to go in point first. And even if you manage, it's hard to nail him so well that he's going to be taken out of the action; all of which might make it seem wasted effort.

On the other hand, if you throw a knife at a guy, he's going to duck. Besides, you might get lucky. Anything that may give you an edge when your life is on the line is worth putting some work into, don't you think? And another reason, just as important, is the satisfaction one gets from learning a skill—from learning how to do something you couldn't do before. It is a good feeling any time you're dissatisfied with life. And aside from all that, there's something relaxing about the ritual: deep breath, drop your shoulders, focus on the target, let fly.

So I went home and threw a bunch of knives at a defenseless piece of wood.

The next day I put in a real day at the office for the first time that week. It felt a little odd. I handled a few loan requests, checked on my various interests, sent one of my boys to jog the memory of a forgetful debtor, and had a pleasant lunch at a nearby inn called the Crow's Feet. Then I had a heart-to-heart talk with one of my people who was starting to use a little heavily and might become unreliable, kidded around with Kragar and Melestav, and got caught up reading the local scandal sheets, none of which had any interesting news. And no one tried to kill me all day. Not even any mild threats. It was refreshing.

The next day was Endweek, and most of the soreness was gone from my side; Aliera apparently did good work. I said as much to Loiosh, who suggested I hire her.

Whether I go in to the office on Endweek depends on how much I have going on; that day there wasn't much, so I figured to take the day off, and, that evening, maybe treat myself to a dinner at Valabar's. I mentally went through a list of possible dinner companions and came up with several options. The idea of spending the day finding a nice Eastern girl to share wonderful food with was entertaining. With luck, I figured, maybe I could even forget about this silly situation I'd gotten myself into.

It was about then that Morrolan made contact with me.

"What the fuck do you want?" I said pleasantly, as soon as I realized who had invaded my mind.

"Have I had the misfortune to interrupt something?"

"You have interrupted nothing; that's why I'm so irritated. What do you want?"

"If you are available, I should appreciate your company on a short journey."

"Grand. I assume it's dangerous."

"No," he said.

"You're kidding."

"Are you disappointed?"

"No, just startled."

"If you will meet me here—"

"Can you give me a couple of hours? I want breakfast, and to give it time to settle in before I teleport."

"Very well," he said, and the contact was broken.

I made myself an omelet with sausage, onions, teriano mushrooms, and red peppers. I lingered over it. Loiosh cleaned my plate while I cleaned the frying pan. Then I buckled on my sword, secreted little surprises in their appropriate places in spite of Morrolan's assurance, and donned my cloak—a lightweight one, because the breeze coming in through the kitchen window promised a warm day. Morrolan, most likely, was going to take us someplace cold, but if I'd taken the heavy cloak he'd take us someplace hot and I didn't feel like attempting psychic contact with him in order to ask what I should wear.

I didn't want to call up one of my own sorcerers, so I returned to the House of the Dragon, which turned out to be a mistake; Baron Lokran wasn't there so I had to waste a lot of time finding someone else who would and could teleport me to Castle Black; the worst part being that I had to reach Morrolan to ask him. But eventually I made it there, and I didn't lose my breakfast.

Lady Teldra gave me her warm Lady Teldra smile and, after a pleasant greeting, did not say, "The Lord Morrolan will join you in the library." Instead she said, "If you will be kind enough to accompany me, I will take you to where the Lord Morrolan awaits." Variation. Something different.

"Goodness, Boss. What does it all mean?"

"Glad to," I told Lady Teldra.

We went up the main stairway, as usual, but continued past the library all the way down the long and very wide hallway. It ended in a door, which brought us to another flight of stairs; these were straight and wide, and reached a landing that swept back in an elegant curve before straightening again. At the top was another hallway; this one I'd never seen before. It was also wide, and it curved gently. Teldra opened a door and gestured for me to precede her. I stepped onto a very narrow circular stairway; the stairs were made of iron and they went up a long way. The door closed behind me. I looked back. Teldra had not followed.

"Maybe it's a trap," said Loiosh.

"That isn't as funny as you think it is."

The stairwell was so narrow I nearly had to ascend sideways, and my shoulder kept rubbing against stonework. The metal rail was cold against my hand. There were a lot of stairs. It flashed through my mind that we were getting pretty high up, and then I almost laughed when I realized that we'd started about a mile up in the air, so this climb didn't change much.

At last we reached the top, where there was a thick, black door. I stood outside it like an idiot for a minute, trying to decide what to do, then I clapped.

"Come in," said Morrolan.

I opened the door. It creaked melodramatically. I wouldn't put it past Morrolan to have purposely installed a door that would creak melodramatically.

I was in a round room—about as big around as my flat. The lighting was provided by a pair of half-shuttered lanterns, which gave less light than whatever had lit the staircase on the way up, which meant that I wouldn't be able to see much until my eyes adjusted. I suddenly remembered, from the courtyard, seeing a single tower atop Castle Black. That must be where we were.

"Brilliant, Boss."

"Shut up, Loiosh."

"Notice the window, Boss?"

"It's the only thing I can see."

"How come it's night out past the window, and day when we walked up here?"

"I've been wondering the same thing."

"That's creepy."

"Yes, it is."

My eyes began to adjust. There wasn't much to see, just a low table and a couple of wooden chests. There were curtains all around the tower, and a set of curtains pulled aside from the window; hence there were windows all around the tower, several of them. At least six. Fewer than seventeen, which was both a relief and oddly disconcerting.

"Boss, when we saw the tower from below, were there any windows?"

"No."

"I hadn't thought so."

I also noticed that Morrolan was wearing his sword. Since Morrolan wasn't accustomed to walking around his home armed, there had to be an explanation. I wasn't looking forward to it. Especially because "armed" in this case meant Blackwand, one of the seventeen Great Weapons. Its presence did nothing to make me feel better.

He said, "Welcome to the Tower, Vlad."

"Thank you."

"There are very few permitted up here."

"Okay. Would you mind explaining the window?"

"I don't believe you have had the training necessary to understand."

"You're probably right."

"What is important, however, is that I can sometimes make the windows look upon what I wish, and that I can then travel to those places. This can be useful in bringing me to places where I do not have a sufficient mental grasp to teleport, or to a place which lies beyond the confines of what we consider 'the world.' "

"Handy thing to have around. Do you know any place that sells them?"

"And, of course, I can bring anyone I wish with me."

"Uh … I'm not sure I like where this conversation is heading."

"I have been attempting to solve the problem of determining exactly what Fornia took from that room, and the related problem of why I failed to notice anything significant about it."

"That's good, Morrolan. A nice mental puzzle will distract you from—"

"Regard the window, Vlad."

"Do I have to?"

But I did, and it was no longer quite black, but had become somewhat grey. A closer look revealed a certain reddish hue amid the grey. And then, near the top, I noticed a bit of orange-red color that seemed a great deal like the sky. The grey had taken on a texture, and suddenly, instead of looking at something mysterious and terrifying, I realized that I was looking at a mountain, with a bit of sky beyond it. Of course, there was no mountain that close to Castle Black, which made it mysterious and terrifying, but you can't have everything.

"Where or what is it?" I said.

"We are looking at Hawk Mountain, in the Kanefthali chain." Something in his voice made me look at him; he was exerting a great deal of effort, more than I'd ever seen from him before.

His left hand was clenched into a fist, turned up, and held stiffly out in front of him at about chin height, the elbow bent. His right hand and arm were moving, going through various gyrations while the fingers extended, contracted, wiggled, twitched, and generally appeared to have a life of their own. Morrolan's eyes were narrowed to slits, and he was breathing loudly, through opened lips, creating a very slight whistling sound through his clenched teeth.

The thought Earth, water, fire, and air came into my mind as I compared left hand, right hand, eyes, and mouth; but I strongly suspect it wasn't anything that simple. I've seen sorcery, and I've seen witchcraft, and this didn't look like either one. I wasn't at all certain I wanted to know what it was.

I looked back through the window, and it seemed to be moving—or, more accurately, it seemed as if we were moving.

My knees suddenly felt wobbly and I didn't like it. I looked at Morrolan again, and he was still staring intently through the window. He was making aimless gestures with his hands, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead.

The mountain appeared to rush at us, and I actually felt a falling sensation. I stepped backward and looked for something to brace against. Then it slowed and stopped, and just outside the window, so close I could touch it, was a dirt path leading to a cave that looked to be about forty feet away.

My heart was still racing. I glanced at Morrolan, who now seemed entirely relaxed; only his breathing showed that he had recently exerted himself.

"What's going on?" I managed.

"We're going to ask—"

"We?"

"—our questions of someone who might know the answers."

"Why 'we'? What am I doing here?"

"Just in case."

"I thought you said there'd be no danger."

"I don't expect there will be."

He stepped through the window, and just like leaving an ordinary window of an ordinary house, he stood on the ground outside, on a rocky path, about forty feet from the entrance to a cave. I sent a suspicious look at the cave. I've never been that fond of caves at the best of times.

"But," continued Morrolan, "it never hurts to have an extra blade along just in case. They can be unpredictable."

"Who is they?"

"The Serioli," he said. "Come on."

"Wonderful," I muttered, and stepped through the window.

Some things you do, you never seem to be done with; years later they come back and remind you, slap you, beat you up. Here I am telling a story of what happened years ago, trying to remember how I felt back then, and—well, forgive the digression, but it belongs here.

Just today, Sethra the Younger returned from exile (Sethra Lavode exiled her off the world a few weeks ago in punishment for, well, never mind what for) and sent word asking me to wait upon her. I don't like her, she doesn't like me, and I couldn't imagine how this could be anything good. And there would be no reason for me to go if I had steered clear of Dragonlords and their business, but since Baritt died I've surrounded myself with them, and now I'm in love with a woman who used to associate with Norathar, who is Dragon Heir to the throne. All of which made it difficult to decline the invitation.

Sorry for the confusion—but that's what happens when you start in the past and the present comes up and bites you. And it's what happens when you hang around with Dragonlords. I'd always thought of Dragons, above all, as simple and straightforward—if something gets in your way, you draw and charge and keep hacking until either it's gone or you are. This is another thing I was wrong about. Watching Sethra put together her campaign, arranging for supplies to be where they were needed, anticipating movements and preparing possible countermarches, guiding her intelligence services—well, okay, war is more complex than I'd thought, so I suppose recounting it has to be complex as well.

"What in blazes could Sethra the Younger want of me, other than my life, which I'm not prepared to part with?"

"Couldn't say, Boss. But you know you're going to go find out, so why not admit it?"

There wasn't much answer to that, so I went ahead and made the arrangements, responding through proper channels, and arrived at Castle Black, where she is staying. We met in one of Morrolan's sitting rooms. She is odd; her features remind me quite a bit of Sethra Lavode's but all done in pastels, and Sethra the Younger was without the terrifying sense of agelessness and power; nevertheless, she has her own aura—a ruthlessness and lust for power that one might expect in a Jhereg.

She tried not to be obvious about how much she disliked me, but casual conversation was beyond her.

"The sword," she began abruptly.

"What sword?" I asked.

"You know damned well—" She stopped, swallowed, and began again. "The sword that was recovered at the Wall of Baritt's Tomb."

I admired the way she put that. "Was recovered." Whatever it was she wanted, it wasn't enough to make her admit … oh, skip it.

"What about it?" I said.

"I have it," she said.

"I know," I told her. "I didn't realize it at the time because I didn't know you. But I figured out who you were later. It's funny you should bring this up just now—"

"If you please, Lord Taltos," she said, as if addressing me by title made her lips hurt.

"Yes?"

She looked at Loiosh, riding complacently on my shoulder, then looked away. I heard Loiosh chuckling within my mind.

I thought about baiting her some more, just because this conversation was so obviously distasteful to her, but I refrained, mostly because I was curious. "All right," I said. "What does this have to do with me?"

"I want you to act as intermediary for me with the Lady Aliera."

"You want me … wait a minute." I couldn't decide which question to ask first. I settled on, "Why me?"

"Aliera doesn't care for me much."

"Well, come to that, neither do I. So?"

"Negotiations should be handled by a third party."

"Then why not Morrolan? Or Sethra?"

"As for Sethra Lavode, I believe she is still sufficiently vexed with me that I cannot ask her for a favor. And Aliera's relationship with Morrolan is such that she will automatically react with hostility to anything he suggests."

That much was true. But—"What makes you think I have any interest in doing you a service?"

She looked startled. "Oh, I'm not asking you for a service."

"You're not?"

"No, no. I intend to pay you."

I carefully controlled my reaction. "I see. Well, what is this negotiation about?"

"The sword, of course."

"Excuse me?"

"I want to offer her the sword we recovered from Fornia in exchange for Kieron's greatsword."

That threw me. I sat there for a minute, trying to figure out what it all meant, and then, to kill time as much as because I was curious, I said, "So far as I know, the sword we recovered from Fornia has nothing special about it. At least, insofar as any Morganti weapon has nothing special about it. Why do you think she'd be interested?"

"You know as well as I that there is more to the sword than that. If I don't know precisely what, that is because, well, that is because I have not yet taken the time to find out."

Because you aren't up to the job? I thought to myself. But that wasn't fair, of course. Several people, including Fornia, hadn't been up to the job. But it pleased me that, after snatching it, she hadn't been able to solve the problem either. I speculated that she'd been too proud to ask Sethra Lavode for help, but I had no way of knowing; maybe the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain had drawn a blank, too.

What I said was, "What would you do with Kieron's greatsword?"

I could see her trying to decide if I deserved an answer. At last she said, "Conquer the East. It would be a tremendous symbol for the leader of—"

"Spare me," I said.

She cleared her throat. "Yes, certainly. But you must see, you are the perfect choice. She trusts you, and even has some bizarre affection for you. And you could put it in terms that would make her see the mutual advantages. I don't know what the going rates are for such a service, but I have sufficient means to—where are you going?"

"To drink seawater. It'll leave a better taste in my mouth than this conversation. Excuse me."

And that was what Sethra the Younger wanted to see me about. It is, you see, all part of the same picture. It is not a picture I'd care to have on my wall.

Which doesn't keep me from continuing to paint it.

Loiosh said, "No one's noticed you, yet"

"Good."

I trotted to the top of the hill and took a good look around. The field on which my messmates were fighting was behind me, and farther behind me was the Wall; a long way off to my right was a match of cavalry against cavalry, and to my left was a company of bad guys marching at quicktime. They might be reinforcements coming to attack my own unit; I couldn't tell yet, and didn't want to wait around to find out. Ahead of me, about two hundred yards away, was a slightly higher hill, and on it was a body of soldiers, I guessed around twenty or thirty, standing alert and, I was fairly certain, protecting the sorcerers, in the center of whom would likely be what I was after.

"Okay, Loiosh. Forward at a march."

"You march, Boss. I'll just sort of hang around."

"Or you could fly overhead and let me know if you see Chi in that group."

"Whatever you say, Boss."

He left my shoulder. I headed toward the hill, wishing I had some sort of plan. But, after all, there were only twenty or thirty of them; what was there to worry about?

I'd covered about a hundred and fifty yards when Loiosh said, "They've noticed you, Boss."

"Great."

I kept moving, because stopping would have been worse, although I didn't enjoy it. I was, not to put too fine a point on it, terrified. My brain was working hard trying to come up with what to say, what to do that would not only leave me alive but let me finish what I set out to do, but each step took an effort, as if my feet had their own idea and wanted me to stop and reconsider the whole idea of forward motion.

I'd had the same reaction, now that I thought about it, to stepping through Morrolan's window; I hadn't wanted to go, but I did. And both times, in a way, I was driven by the same thing: the desire not to look craven in front of a Dragon. Why should I care? There's another mystery.

I knew, as I stepped through that window, that if I looked around there would be no window behind me, but I had to look anyway. No, there was no window; there was, instead, a breathtaking view of three mountain peaks, laid out as if they had been built just for how they looked from where I stood. Two of them were capped with snow, stretching out before me, too far away to pick out details. There was a purple sheen to them, and it took a moment to realize I was looking down on them. Then I noticed the sharpness of the air, and the fresh tang. I pulled my cloak closer around me.

"Let's go, Vlad."

"I'm admiring nature," I said, but I turned and followed him up the path.

I bent my head as we entered the cave—I suppose from some odd instinct, because it was large enough for Morrolan to enter unbowed, which he did.

The light failed quickly; after ten paces I could no longer see. Morrolan and I stopped and he made a light spell that caused a radiance to shine out from his hand, not too strong to look at but very bright wherever he pointed. We continued. The cave became narrower and the ceiling lower. "Watch your head," he suggested.

"Notice anything odd, Boss?"

"No, Loiosh, it seems just like every other time I used a necromantic window to step through onto the top of a mountain and walk into a dark cave to meet someone of a half-legendary magical race. What are you talking about?"

"What do you smell?"

"Ah. Okay, point. I owe you a fish head."

What I smelled was brimstone. What it meant I couldn't say, but I doubted it was a natural smell in that cave, at least as strong as it was. I glanced at Morrolan, walking steadily and emitting light from his hand. I could read nothing from his expression.

About fifty paces in from the mouth, the cave abruptly ended in a natural-looking wall that could not have been natural. Morrolan stood there, frowning at it, and I said, "What now?"

"I am uncertain of the custom," he said. "Whether we should wait or—"

There was a rattling sound, as of pebbles rolling on metal, followed by a low rumble, and a portion of the wall before us gave back, showing a narrow stone stairway heading downward.

"I think waiting is appropriate," I said.

He began going down the stairs.

There were only twenty steps, and those shallow, until they reached another stone doorway, this one standing open, and we continued, walking on flagstones that echoed sharply. The hall was narrow and the ceiling low; I took a certain pleasure in seeing Morrolan walk with his head bowed. The smell of brimstone grew even stronger.

"I wonder what's for dinner?" said Loiosh.

The hall ended without ceremony, leaving us in a nearly circular cavern about forty feet in diameter. The walls were rough and cave-like, the floor polished smooth, and the ceiling just high enough for Morrolan to stand straight. There was no furniture of any kind. A short person stood at the far end, looking at us with what would have been an expression of curiosity in a human or a Dragaeran. We approached until we were about six feet away, and then stopped. The being was skinny and ugly, wore what appeared to be blue and red silks in the form of layers of scarves, and as far as I could see, had no hair whatsoever.

He—I thought he looked like a he—gave no courtesy, but spoke abruptly, in a pleasant, flutey voice. His accents fell in odd, almost random places, and there was a certain clipped quality to his consonants, but there was no difficulty understanding him. He addressed Morrolan with the words, "Greetings, brother. Who are your friends?"

"Did you hear that, Boss? Friends?"

"Shut up, Loiosh."

"Good day to you," said Morrolan, adding a sound at the end that was either the last cough from a man with Juiner's Lung or the name of the Serioli we faced. "His name—your pardon—the Easterner's name is Vlad Taltos, the Jhereg is called Loiosh."

"You don't mention the fourth, because we've met already; but why do you leave out the fifth? Because she is not altogether here?"

Morrolan frowned and looked at me. I gave him a helpless shrug. I said, "I take it you two have met before?"

"Once," said Morrolan. "Far from here, but he told me where to find him."

There was a story there, but Morrolan wasn't much given to storytelling, and now wasn't the time to ask. I studied the Serioli, the only one I'd ever seen, and tried not to look as if I was staring. He wasn't so polite; he was looking at me, and at Loiosh, as if an odd specimen of vegetation had just occurred in his garden and he wasn't certain if it were flower or weed.

His complexion was very pale, almost albino, and his face was more wrinkled than my grandfather's. His hair was thin, wispy, and white, his eyes a pale, watery blue.

Morrolan said, "Who is the fifth?"

"Who indeed," said the Serioli, nodding sagaciously, as if Morrolan had said something wise.

Morrolan glanced at me again as if wondering if I had any idea what the Serioli was talking about. I shrugged with my eyebrows.

"You don't understand?" said our host. "How droll. But leave it for now."

"We've brought wine," said Morrolan, which was news to me. "Would you care for some? It is from the East."

"Grateful," said the Serioli. "Shall we sit?"

Morrolan sat himself down on the floor, leaning against the wall, legs stretched out, looking absurd. I sat next to him, but I don't know how I looked. Our companion walked around a wall that I hadn't seen was there—it blended into the back of the cave—and emerged with three handsome wooden goblets. Morrolan produced a bottle of wine and glass-cloth from somewhere, broke off the neck with a practiced hand, spread the cloth, and poured. Then he hauled out some sweet biscuits wrapped in cloth and spread those out on the floor. I ate one. It was all right. I wondered if it was the custom among the Serioli for guests to bring the refreshments; I made a mental note to ask Morrolan later, but I forgot.

I watched the Serioli eat and drink. I couldn't tell for sure if he had any teeth, but I almost became convinced he had no bones in his arms. I thought he looked graceful, Loiosh thought he looked silly. What good these observations did is, of course, a perfectly valid, if inherently rhetorical, question.

"You've brought good wine," said our host after eating and drinking for a few minutes. "And questions, too?"

"Yes," said Morrolan. "We've brought questions, but first there's the one we didn't bring, but found waiting for us when we arrived."

"Yes. You did not know of whom I was asking." Then he looked at me with his head tilted and his funny little eyes narrowed. "And you, too. Or are there secrets I am giving away?"

"None that I know of," I said. "Besides, I trust the Lord Morrolan completely as long as he has nothing to do with my business."

The Serioli made a wheezing sound accompanied by his whole face pinching up; I assumed he was laughing. He spoke in his own language, a clicking, snapping sound that seemed like one long word full of consonants and digestive trouble; it flowed naturally from his face, as if he ought to speak like that. Morrolan chuckled.

I looked at Morrolan and said, "All of which meant?"

"Three can keep a secret if two are dead."

I raised my glass to the Serioli, who said to Morrolan, "Let me then answer your question. You may be unaware of it, but by your side, descendent of Dragons, is—?" Here he croaked, coughed, and clicked something in his own language.

"Which means?" I said.

Morrolan answered, "Magical wand for creating death in the form of a black sword."

"Oh," I said. "Is that what it is?"

"Close," said the Serioli. "I should not, however, translate it as 'creating death.' " He paused, as if wanting to formulate the sentence before embarking on it. "It would be more precise to say 'removing life-substance.' " He paused again, "Or perhaps 'sending the life-substance to—' "

"Fine," said Morrolan.

"Our symbol for life, you see, is expressed in the phrase—"

"If you please," said Morrolan.

The Serioli looked at him. "Yes?"

"What—or who—is the fifth?"

"The fifth isn't entirely here. But your friend of the Old People should know."

"You should know?"

"Old People?"

"How should I know?" I said. "Old people?"

He made a growling noise in which words were hidden. Morrolan searched them out and said, "I'm not sure what that means. 'People from the invisible lights'?"

"Small invisible lights."

"Ah," I said. "Well, if you can't see them, I don't suppose it matters much how big they are." Then, "But were you speaking of Spellbreaker?"

"Is that what you call it?" He made his laughing sound again.

"What would you call it?"

"Spellbreaker," he said, "is as good a name as any, for now."

"You're saying I'm holding a Great Weapon?"

"No, you are not. Not yet."

"Not yet," I repeated. I let Spellbreaker, which I kept coiled around my left wrist, fall into my hand. I studied it. It seemed shorter than it had the last time I looked at it, and the links appeared to be smaller. "Not yet?"

"Someday, there will be a weapon—" He stopped and his lips worked. Then he resumed, "Someday, there will be a weapon called 'Remover of aspects of deity.' "

I repeated this name and shrugged.

"Godslayer," said Morrolan.

"If you wish," said the Serioli.

"What has this to do with my chain?"

"Everything," said the Serioli. "Or nothing."

"Do you know, I get tired of people speaking in riddles."

Our host made his laughing sound again. I wrapped Spellbreaker around my wrist. "Fine," I said. "How do I find this weapon?"

"Uh … Boss? Why do you want to?"

"I'm not certain I do, but—"

"To find it, you must first find—" He clicked some more.

I looked at Morrolan. "Artifact in sword form that searches for the true path." He looked at the Serioli to see if the translation was approved.

"Not far off. But I am uncertain if 'true path' would be precisely the way to say it. I might suggest 'an object of desire when the path is true.' The form of 'path' is made abstract by the final 'tsu.' "

"I see," said Morrolan. "Thank you."

I wondered if Morrolan had any idea what he was talking about. Probably, since he spoke the language. I said, "Would you like to tell me more?"

"The two artifacts were, or are to be, created together—"

"Excuse me, but is there a simple explanation for this 'were or are to be' thing?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. All right." I dropped it. Whenever anyone starts talking about the odd things time can do, I think about the Paths of the Dead, and I didn't care to think about that just then.

"Some of our people," he continued, "desired divinity and crafted artifacts to find and then destroy those who sit on the Thrones of Judgment. One of these became something other than what it had been designed to be; it became a device for the finding of—well, for the finding of whatever the wielder wished to find, based on the principle that all of life, including the desire of will, is part of—"

"If you please," said Morrolan. "The other?"

"The other was taken by the Gods, and an attempt was made to destroy it."

"I can imagine," I said under my breath.

"Both are now lost; when one is found, the other is likely to turn up."

"And what I have—"

"What you have," he said, staring at me with an expression I couldn't read, "is a gold chain that is useful for interrupting the flow of energies from—" He concluded the sentence with another word or phrase in his own language. I looked at Morrolan for a translation, but the Dragonlord was chewing his lip, frowning, and seemed to be busy with thoughts of his own. That was all right; I could make a pretty good guess.

I said, "Well, that's certainly something to think about. But I believe Morrolan brought us here to ask you something."

Morrolan blinked and looked at me. "Pardon?"

"I was suggesting that you ask our friend whatever it is you wanted to ask him about."

"Oh. I already have."

"You—all right."

"Loiosh, did you catch any psychic communication?"

"No, Boss. But I might have missed it. This character is weird."

"You think?"

Whatever information Morrolan had been after, he'd clearly gotten it. He made a few courtesies, which I did my best to mimic, then, bowing, he led the way back out of the cave. As we walked, I said, "I forgot to ask why the place smelled of brimstone."

He didn't answer.

Once we were back outside, I said, "So, how do you make the window reappear?"

He didn't answer that, either, but made a few nonchalant gestures in the air, and it occurred to me that there was no reason to make the window appear; he could simply teleport us to Castle Black. I'd have suggested that I preferred the other method of travel, but he didn't seem to be in a mood to listen.

My bowels twisted and the mountains vanished, and we were back in the room which we'd first left, and without so much as a pause Morrolan said, "Thank you, Vlad, I am glad to have had you along."

"Mind if I sit for a moment?" I managed. It wasn't just the aftereffects of the teleport, it was the realization that I'd have to teleport again when I left.

"Not at all."

He drew a curtain over the window we'd lately walked through. I looked around the room again, just to kill time. For the center of power for a powerful sorcerer, there wasn't a whole lot there: the table, two chests. And the windows. I counted nine of them. Then I counted eight of them. Then I counted nine again, then I counted ten. By then my stomach had settled down so I quit counting and stood up.

"Feeling better?"

I looked for traces of a sneer and didn't notice any. "Yes, thanks. Lead on."

He brought us back down the narrow metal stairway and through the labyrinth of Castle Black—a labyrinth I was beginning to learn, thanks to Fentor and the work I was doing on Morrolan's security (which I know I haven't mentioned much, but it doesn't really come into this story; there was a fair bit of work involved, and some interesting things happened, but I don't want to take the time to go into it right now).

"So," I said. "Would you care to tell me what you learned?"

"Of course not," he said. "Would you care for a drink?"

"No, thanks. I'm teleporting."

"Ah, yes, certainly." He reached into his cloak and removed a small purse.

"No, no," I said. "This one's gratis."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. I learned enough to pay for the experience."

"Oh? And … " He decided not to ask what I'd learned because he knew very well how I'd answer.

Loiosh said, "Did I miss something? What did you learn?"

"Nothing. I just wanted to give Morrolan something to think about."

"I hope it was worth whatever he was going to pay you."

Morrolan said, "Are you still determined upon the course of action to which you previously referred?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said—"

"No, never mind. I think I got part of that. Yeah, I'm still willing to do what I can to mess up this guy's program, if you think it'll help."

"Good. We will begin the muster tomorrow. The following day you may, if you are still willing, of course, report to your unit, Cropper Company, at noon. It will be assembling on the lea below Castle Black, north of the stone wall. Look for a green banner with a black horn upon it."

I opened and shut my mouth a few times, then said, "So soon;

"If you can give me a good reason to delay, I'll consider the matter."

"I'll think about it and get back to you. But can't I just teleport to someplace where I'll do some good, instead of joining a company?"

"What makes you think the enemy will allow teleports anywhere in the area? Or, for that matter, that I will?"

"Will you?"

"No."

"I see. Well, what about your window?"

"I won't be here, I'll be with the army."

"Oh."

"Any other questions?"

"Uh … Why that company?"

"Is there another you'd prefer?"

"I haven't a clue, Morrolan. I just wondered what it is about them—"

"They'll be in the van during the first stage, which makes it most convenient for your activities, and Cropper, the Captain, is easier to work with than some. Anything else?"

"Yeah. How do I get home? I don't feel like doing my own teleport."

"Where are you going?"

"My office."

"I'll bring you."

"You mean you'll send me?"

"I was thinking of bringing you. I'd like to see where work."

"Heh. That'll shake up the staff," I said. "Sure."

"Then open your mind and think of your office."

I had him bring us to the street outside, pointed out some sights to him while I recovered, and noticed that he was attracting a certain a mount of attention: Dragonlords aren't often seen in the company of Easterners. On the other hand, no one wanted to stare too blatantly; people mind their own business in my neighborhood.

I led him through the various fronts and up into the suite of rooms I worked out of. Melestav looked up when I came in, then saw who was behind me and nearly sprang to his feet.

"Melestav," I said, "the Lord Morrolan."

Melestav didn't find anything to say, which amused me. Morrolan looked around. "If I didn't know better," he said, "I should say that this was the office of an advocate."

"What were you expecting? Bottles of poison and shelves of garrotes?"

"I'm not certain," said Morrolan. "Perhaps that is why I wanted to see it."

"Here's where I work," I said, leading the way. Kragar, whom I hadn't noticed, stepped out of our way.

"Excuse me," I said. "Kragar, the Lord Morrolan."

"We've met," said Kragar.

"Forgive me if I don't bow," said Morrolan.

I showed him in, and had him sit in the chair opposite me. "So," I said, "you need more time to pay me back. Well, maybe we can work something out."

"There is a disparity," he said, "between what you do and the surroundings in which you do it. It is interesting." Which was when I suddenly realized that he wanted to be here because he wanted to learn about me—that is, he was learning about a potential ally or possible enemy, in much the same way he would investigate military positions, or I would study someone with whom I had business. It was reasonable, but it made me very uncomfortable.

"I had the same reaction, a few days ago."

He stared at me hard for a moment, then continued looking around my office.

"Ask him if he wants a job, Boss."

"Maybe later, Loiosh."

"Well, thank you, Vlad. I'll be going now."

"I'll show you out," I said, and I did, then returned to my desk, sat down, and said, "So, Kragar, it's like this, you see … "

He waited for me to continue, his eyes narrowed, his head tilted, and his expression one of intense suspicion. At length, when I refused to finish the thought, he said, "What was he doing here?"

"Checking me out. But that isn't what I wanted to talk about."

"Oh?" he said. "It must be my latent Dragon instincts that tell me you've either done something stupid or you're going to ask me to do something unpleasant, or both."

"Both, I think."

He nodded, his expression unchanging.

"I'd like you to run things here while I'm gone. It'll be at least—"

"That's both, all right."

"—a couple of days, maybe a month or more."

He frowned and thought about it. At last he said, "I don't much like the idea. I'm an executive officer type, not a commander. That's how I like it, you know."

"I know."

He considered some more. "Offer me a lot of money."

"I'll give you a lot of money."

"All right."

"Good."

"What will you be doing?"

"Following up on your idea."

"Which one?"

"Sabotage and sundry nuisance for an army."

"I see."

"Morrolan has assigned me to a company."

"I imagine he has."

"Anything I should know about military life before I show up?"

He laughed. "I don't know where to start. For one thing, expect to hate it."

"Oh, I do."

"For another, if you start letting yourself get pushed around—I mean by your messmates, not your superior officers—it'll never stop, or else you'll have to kill someone, which won't be good for anyone."

"Got it."

"And for another, if your messmates even suspect you aren't going to be holding up your end in battle, they'll make your life miserable."

"One question."

"Go ahead."

"What's a messmate?"

"I can see," said Kragar slowly, "that you're going to need a great deal of preparation for this."

If you follow Dockside Road as it meanders generally east and a little south (following the docks, amazingly enough) you'll eventually reach a place where it opens up into a market area, from which Bacon Street springs off down a hill. Assume that the wind is from the north or west because if it is from the south or east you won't make it that far, and you'll soon see a row of short, squat, ugly brick buildings wedged right up against a very low section of the cliffs of Adrilankha. These are the slaughterhouses, and they're positioned so when the meat has been sliced, seasoned, smoked, salted, and packed it can be dumped over the cliff on shipping nets, from which it can then be stowed in the holds of the merchant ships which will try to get it to its destination before too much of it has become too disgusting to be eaten.

Go on past it, and hope the wind fortuitously changes direction right about there (nothing, but nothing, smells as bad as a slaughterhouse on a hot day) and you'll start climbing up again, and somewhere in there Bacon Street becomes Ramshead Lane, and you'll notice that the stench diminishes and changes (garbage doesn't smell quite as bad as a slaughterhouse) but doesn't go away and that the dwellings are mostly wood, and packed tightly together, and unpainted, and you're now in South Adrilankha, and you are welcome to tell me why you bothered to come in the first place. I was there because I had family in the district.

I knew the streets here almost as well as I knew my own area, so I paid little attention as we walked past bakeries and tanners and ironmongers and witches and prostitutes, following the turnings in the road and occasionally nodding at anyone who dared to make eye contact with me, because I don't go out of my way to be intimidating to other Easterners. It is a relief, in any case, to see people who are sometimes bald and sometimes fat and sometimes short and sometimes have whiskers, because Dragaerans can't manage any of these things—what they see as better I see as more limited.

We passed a street minstrel who was singing in one of the more obscure Eastern languages, and I dropped a few orbs into his instrument case.

"Boss, was he singing what I thought he was singing?"

"A young man tells his beloved of his love for her."

" 'My little hairy testicle—' "

"It's a cultural thing, Loiosh. You wouldn't understand."

We came to a street called Strangers Road, and south of it was a neighborhood called Six Corners where everything changed at night; I know of nothing like it anywhere else in Adrilankha, or in any part of the Empire. But here is a fish shop during the day; at night the unsold fish are thrown away and it becomes a place to buy homemade untaxed liquor, especially brandy. Next to it is a bootmaker's, until night, when the boots are locked away beneath the floor and it becomes an untaxed gambling hall. That baker goes home for the day, and another man comes at night, opens the back, unfolds rows of mattresses, and turns the place into one of the most wretched brothels in the City.

I rather preferred the district in the day, though at night it felt more like home.

And then, just after passing out of Six Corners, we eventually reached a small witchcraft supply shop at the corner of two unnamed and unmarked streets, and I walked in under the awning, setting the chimes ringing. I was greeted at once by Ambrus, the cat, who emerged from under the hanging rugs and was followed by my grandfather, who parted them carefully before stepping through. "Hello, Vladimir," he said. "It is good to see you. Sit down and have tea."

Ambrus crouched before me, preparing to spring. I made a basket of my arms, caught him, and carried him past the rugs and into the shop or the house—it was the same place and hard even for me to tell which items were for sale or use by customers and which were strictly personal. For example, you'd think the self-portrait was personal, wouldn't you? Just goes to show you. Loiosh and Ambrus, having established their relationship early on, determinedly ignored one another's existence.

I sat in a grey stuffed chair, set the cat on my lap, and took the small, delicate porcelain teacup from my grandfather. It was painted blue, and the tea was red. I squeezed lemon into it, added a trace of honey, and said, "How are you, Noish-pa?"

"I am as always, Vladimir."

In other words, he knew I had something on my mind and that I wasn't just coming over to visit. The thing is, I often come over just to visit, so how did he know? But never mind that. I took a tiny sip of tea, because I knew it would be very hot. It was; it was also very good, and not in the least bitter. I could have gotten by without the honey. I should have sampled it first. I said, "I have joined the army, Noish-pa."

His eyes widened, and I was delighted to have actually managed to startle him. He said, "You have joined the army?"

"Well, after a fashion."

He leaned back a little in his chair, which was a great deal like the one I was sitting in. I suddenly realized that my own furniture tended to be like my grandfather's, as opposed to the hard wood and lightly padded stuff I had grown up with while my father was alive. "Tell me of it," he said.

"I was attacked not long ago. Beaten and threatened. It was by a man who had no reason to attack me, except to warn me to leave him alone. I'd have left him alone if he had left me alone. Now I'm going to hurt him."

"By enlisting in an army?"

"An army that is soon to attack him. I will be engaging in various special services—"

"Do you think this a good reason to enlist in an army?"

"Of course not, Noish-pa."

He cracked a quick, gap-toothed smile. "But you are doing it anyway."

"Yes."

"Very well."

He knew me, and knew when it was worthwhile to try to talk me into or out of something. He rarely tried to change my mind in any case, even when he might be able to. Loiosh flew over to him and accepted having his chin scratched. Noish-pa said, "What then do you ask me?"

"You were in the army once. What should I know?"

He frowned. "Vladimir, that was a different circumstance. I was a conscript soldier in an Eastern army; this is not the same as volunteering in an army of elfs."

"I know that."

"And we were soundly beaten in our first and only battle."

"I know that, too."

He stared off into the distance. "You will do a great deal of marching; protect your feet. Stay out of the way of officers—try not to be noticed. Do your share of latrine duty, but not more than your share, though you won't need to be told that. Sleep when you can, but you won't need to be told that, either. Trust your officers, even though they will not be trustworthy; you must trust them anyway because it is worse if you don't."

The implications of that last suggestion went home, and, in a certain sense, I became aware for the first time of just what I'd gotten myself into.

"It's not too late, Boss."

"Yes, it is."

I remembered to drink more of my tea before it got cold.

"Are you hungry, Vladimir?"

"A little."

"Come, then."

We went back into his little kitchen, and I sat on a stool at the tiny counter while he made the one thing I've never been able to get to come out right: It is an Eastern bread, only slightly raised, and pan-fried in a very light olive oil. I think the trick is getting the oil at exactly the right temperature, and judging when to turn the bread, which is just before it shows any obvious signs of needing to turn; the dough was pretty straightforward, unless Noish-pa was hiding something, which would be unlike him. In any case, I've never been able to get it right, which I regretted anew as soon as the first one hit the oil and released its aroma.

I watched my grandfather as he cooked. His concentration was total, just as when he was crafting a spell. The comparison between cooking and witchcraft has been so overdone that I can't make myself discuss it, but I'll mention I was reminded of it again.

I let the first loaf (it looked more like a large, raised square of light brown dough) cool just a bit. I took a clove of garlic, cut it in two with my teeth, and coated the top of the bread with it. When I could hold the bread without burning my fingers too much, I bit into the garlic, let it explode in my mouth, then followed it with a bite of bread. I closed my eyes to enjoy the experience, and when I opened them Noish-pa had put a glass of red wine next to my elbow. We ate in silence for a while, and I enjoyed it until I realized that this would be one of the last decent meals I ate for a while. I wondered if it would be possible to teleport out of camp late at night, get something to eat, and teleport back. No, they'd doubtless have teleport blocks in place to make sure the enemy didn't show up for reasons other than cuisine.

"You've really done it this time, haven't you, Boss?"

I didn't even tell him to shut up. I embraced Noish-pa and walked back through South Adrilankha. Not much time had passed, and the street musician was still there, this time singing something about a cockroach wearing leather pants. In a better mood I'd have laughed, but I still put some more money into his instrument case, just on the chance that it might bring me good luck.

I wanted to spend the next day preparing myself for what was coming; the trouble was, I had no idea how to do so. I wasn't even certain what to pack, except to make sure I had my most comfortable boots and, of course, a good assortment of weapons. I laid them all out with a heavy cloak, a spare shirt, some extra hose, and shaving gear, and stared at them, thinking they were inadequate and ought to tell me why, then I stuffed them all into a satchel and headed over to the office because I couldn't think of a good excuse not to.

Neither Kragar nor Melestav had much to say to me, from which I deduced that Kragar had, at least, hinted to Melestav about what I was up to. And, after all, what was there for them to say? Melestav kept shaking his head; Kragar smirked periodically. I didn't think it was all that funny.

I canceled a couple of unimportant meetings because I just didn't feel I could do them justice. I couldn't decide if I hoped there'd be nothing to do so I could go home and fret or if I wanted to be kept busy with my mind elsewhere. After an hour or so of hanging around being irritated I decided I didn't care and that I'd just take the rest of the day off. I'm the boss; I can do that.

I paced around my flat. I tried to read but kept getting distracted, so I went to a club that had music but only found it irritating, so I went to another club that had Fenarian brandy, and that helped. I wondered how many times, down through the ages, has Fenarian brandy or its spiritual equivalent, so to speak, come to the help of a man the day before he became a soldier.

Hell, that was stupid. I was not becoming a soldier. I was enlisting, as a formality, so I could march with an army and do nasty things to the enemy; I was certainly not going to be around for any battles. I drank some more brandy to that thought, then went home and went to bed, and some time later I fell asleep, and then I got up late the next morning and enlisted.

Fifty yards away there were about twenty Dragonlords, and among them, to the best of my knowledge and belief, were sorcerers skilled enough to be willing to take on the duties for an army. Now, don't get me wrong; I'm good at what I do. But marching forward across an open field, in plain sight, and just starting to cut away was not, it seemed to me, the best way to accomplish my goal.

"Now what, Boss?"

"Funny, I was just asking myself that very question."

I walked forward about half the distance; I was certainly the object of their attention now. If I had arranged an attack from some other direction, and my approach had been merely a distraction, it would have worked perfectly.

Shame about that.

I unbuckled my sword belt, let it fall to the ground, raised my hands, and kept walking.

"Got an idea, Boss?"

"No," I explained.

"Well, that makes me feel better."

Now it was just one foot in front of another, but with the destination in sight. There was horrid inevitability to it, as if I were just completing a journey that had started weeks before, with a teleport to where Morrolan's army was bivouacked; everything after that had been just continuing the journey. Maybe I never should have started it. I certainly felt that way when I appeared on the lea beneath Castle Black.

Skip the teleport; it's getting as boring to relate as it is to do, though perhaps not quite so sick-making. I arrived near a wooden bridge that was larger than it had seemed from a mile up (go figure). It was a strange bridge, too, with a high arch and sticks jutting out at odd angles and, as far as I could see, nothing at all keeping it together. On the other side were two sentries holding spears, and behind them rows and rows of tents, all of them beige, all facing the same way, all of them an equal distance apart. A few banners fluttered in the light breeze. It was a bit cool out.

I looked for the banner Morrolan had described. I wondered what I'd have done if there were no breeze; how much confusion would that have caused? No, of course a sorcerer would have gotten up a breeze. In fact, maybe that's what happened. I could probably find out by performing a—

"Well, Boss?"

"I'm procrastinating."

"I know."

I sighed and crossed the bridge. It seemed solid enough, and, yes, as soon as I crossed it I was stepping into an area protected from teleports. The sentries crossed their spears in front of me. One started to speak, but I said, "Vladimir Taltos, House of the Jhereg, to see Captain Cropper by orders of Lord Morrolan."

They stepped out of my way, and one of them gestured to my left. I nodded, turned that way, and began strolling, with the camps to my right. The stream on my left gurgled and laughed at me. It was all bloody damned pastoral in that direction. Looking the other way, there was actually not much activity; I saw a few people sitting on makeshift stools outside of tents, but not many, and those paid little attention to me. There were also a good number of wagons at the far end, and I could see a few people unloading boxes into large, pavilion-like tents. Occasionally I'd hear laughter drifting over. A few small fires were going, and I could smell wood smoke and fresh bread.

"There it is, Boss. Green banner, black horn."

"Where? Oh. I see it. I'd been thinking of a Lyom's horn or something, not the instrument."

I crossed the hundred yards or so to the flag and looked around. There were no uniforms as such, but everyone had a little cap on, and each cap was decorated with a green badge with a horn on it; they also wore sashes, with the same badge near the left shoulder. I drew a few curious looks from those assembled, all of whom seemed to be Dragons. One of them had a silver braid about his left shoulder. He was sitting on an empty wooden crate next to the banner. He looked up at me and said, "You want something?"

"I'm looking for Cropper. Uh, Captain Cropper."

"Who's looking?"

"I am."

He gave me an "I am not amused" stare and I reminded myself that I might be about to put myself in a position where this person would have control over my comfort, and maybe even my life expectancy. I mentally shrugged and said, "Baronet Vladimir Taltos, House of the Jhereg, sent by Lord Morrolan e'Drien, House of the Dragon."

He studied me a little, I guess trying to decide just how much of an attitude he ought to display at this point. Then he stood and said, "I'll tell him."

He went over to a rather larger tent, clapped, was admitted, entered, and reappeared. "Go on in," he said. I wasn't sure if I ought to salute, so I didn't.

Captain Cropper was old, probably getting close to three thousand, but had bright eyes, as well as bushy eyebrows and a pointed chin. He had a jacket with three silver braids around the right shoulder. He was seated on a rickety chair at a rickety wooden table and he was writing up reports or something. As I walked up he said, "I was informed that you were to be attached to my company. Welcome, I suppose. We will dispense with the swearing in because I'm not certain it would have any meaning, and I am unclear on your status with the company. I will find out in due time. For now, Crown will give you cap, sash, and bedding and show you to your quarters. And get rid of that thing."

"That thing" was, of course, Loiosh. It seemed we were going to have trouble right from the start. "That thing" said into my mind, "Tell him if he gives me some of those silver things, I'll forget the offense."

"Shut up, thing."

"He is required—"

"Sir!" He glared at me. I managed not to roll my eyes.

"Excuse me, sir. He is required for the operations I am to perform."

He worked his mouth like a horse and said, "Is it necessary that it go around on your shoulder?"

"I could stand on your head, Boss, but you might get tired of that."

"Yes, sir, it is," I said.

Cropper glared at me again. "Very well," he said. "That's all." And he turned back to his work.

He didn't seem to expect me to salute either. No one was expecting me to salute. I'd been looking forward to it, too—it's such a silly thing to do, when you stop and think about it.

I stepped out of the tent and found myself looking up at the man with one silver braid. I said, "You must be Crown, right?"

"Sergeant Crown," he snapped.

"Excuse me," I said, keeping all irony out of my voice. He had rather a square jaw for a Dragonlord, and very thick, bushy eyebrows. He wore a sort of jerkin that covered his arms to the elbows, showing off forearms that were thick and knotted with muscle and quite intimidating. I decided that if I ever had to go up against this man, I'd do so from a distance. I wondered if he was any good at throwing knives.

"Come along," he said.

"All right."

"Answer: 'Yes, Sergeant.' "

"Yes, Sergeant."

He grunted and turned away. I followed him. It occurred to me that achieving popularity was not the number one point on his program. He led me past the Captain's tent and then down a long row of smaller, identical tents, pitched in triangles with flaps all facing the same way. I was the subject of stares, all curious and sometimes unfriendly, from those sitting around outside of them.

He stopped at one and said, "These are your quarters. You'll find a cot, a blanket, canteen, and kit inside."

I said, "Yes, Sergeant."

"I see you have a sword. If you deem it, uh, insufficient, you may draw one of ours."

"Yes, Sergeant."

He turned away. There were two Dragonlords relaxing on wood-and-canvas backless stools outside the tent. They looked up at me.

I said, "And a very pleasant morning to you both."

It wasn't, really; there was a nasty wind that made it a bit cold, and it smelled like it was going to rain. I mention this because one of them, the woman, said, "It is, actually; at least compared to the last couple of days. I'm Virt e'Terics."

"Vlad Taltos."

"Jhereg?"

The question seemed curious rather than hostile, so I said, "Yes I am, or yes he is, depending on which you're asking about." I turned to the man and raised my eyebrows. He turned away.

"His name," said Virt, "is Napper. He's of the e'Drien line. Don't take him personally. Every squad needs someone like him to make bivouacs so unpleasant we look forward to battle."

Napper gave her a nasty look but didn't actually say anything.

"You may as well stow your gear," said Virt.

"Sure. Uh, what exactly does that mean?"

"Shove it under your cot."

"Oh. I can manage that."

Napper gave a snort which I couldn't interpret. Virt said, "For whatever it's worth, we may be moving out any day."

Napper spoke for the first time, saying, "What makes you think so?"

Virt pointed with her chin toward the supply tents. "The last couple of wagons have brought traveling rations. Besides, Sethra Lavode hates keeping her armies in bivouac. If she can't move them out, she likes to arrange billets."

"Don't matter," said Napper. Virt smiled and shrugged with her eyebrows.

At this point another woman walked up. She glanced at Loiosh, then at me. "You must be Taltos," she said. "I'm Rascha, corporal of your squad."

I bowed my head. "Uh … how do I address you?"

"By name is fine. And you don't have to salute."

"No one has made me salute yet."

She cracked a small smile. "I suspect no one knows quite how to deal with you." Of all the soldiers I'd run into so far, she seemed the most "military"—she stood straight and stiff, making her seem taller than she was, and she wore her hair short and brushed straight back from her forehead; her eyes were dark and narrow. She also carried a sword, which I noticed because she was the only one so far who did.

Virt said, "What's the story, Rascha?"

"Maneuvers this afternoon, and we'll probably be moving out tomorrow."

Virt nodded and didn't give Napper any "I told you so" sort of glance. Napper, on the other hand, gave a snort which may have been a response to either piece of news, or both.

"Move where?" I said.

Rascha gave me a quick glance, and said, "You'll know when we get there, Taltos," in a sharp tone of voice.

"Sorry," I said.

"Get your gear stowed."

"Right away," I said, and entered the tent, ducking low enough not to knock Loiosh off my shoulder. It was a bit cooler than it had been outside. There were four cots, and three of them had identical backpacks under them; I put my satchel under the fourth.