Brust, Steven - Vlad Taltos 01 - Jhereg

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Jhereg
Book 1 in the Vlad Taltos series
By Steven Brust
Prologue
There is a similarity, if I may be permitted an excursion into tenuous metaphor,
between the feel of a chilly breeze and the feel of a knife's blade, as either is laid
across the back of the neck. I can call up memories of both, if I work at it. The chilly
breeze is invariably going to be the more pleasant memory. For instance...
I was eleven years old, and clearing tables in my father's restaurant. It was a quiet
evening, with only a couple of tables occupied. A group had just left, and I was
walking over to the table they'd used.
The table in the corner was a deuce. One male, one female. Both Dragaeran, of
course. For some reason, humans rarely came into our place; perhaps because we
were human too, and they didn't want the stigma, or something. My father himself
always avoided doing business with other "Easterners."
There were three at the table along the far wall. All of them were male, and
Dragaeran. I noted that there was no tip at the table I was clearing, and heard a gasp
from behind me.
I turned as one member of the threesome let his head fall into his plate of lyorn leg
with red peppers. My father had let me make the sauce for it that time, and, crazily,
my first thought was to wonder if I'd built it wrong.
The other two stood up smoothly, seemingly not the least bit worried about their
friend. They began moving toward the door, and I realized that they were planning to
leave without paying. I looked for my father, but he was in back.
I glanced once more at the table, wondering whether I should try to help the fellow
who was choking, or intercept the two who were trying to walk out on their bill.
Then I saw the blood.
The hilt of a dagger was protruding from the throat of the fellow whose face was
lying in his plate. It slowly dawned on me what had happened, and I decided that, no,
I wasn't going to ask the two gentlemen who were leaving for money.
They didn't run, or even hurry. They walked quickly and quietly past me toward the
door. I didn't move. I don't think I was even breathing. I remember suddenly
becoming very much aware of my own heartbeat.
One set of footsteps stopped, directly behind me. I remained frozen, while in my
mind, I cried out to Verra, the Demon Goddess.
At that moment, something cold and hard touched the back of my neck. I was too
frozen to flinch. I would have closed my eyes if I could have. Instead, I stared straight
ahead. I wasn't consciously aware of it at the time, but the Dragaeran girl was looking
at me, and she started to rise then. I noticed her when her companion reached out a
hand to stop her, which she brushed off.
Then I heard a soft, almost silky voice in my ear. "You didn't see a thing," it said.
"Got that?" If I had had as much experience then as I do now, I would have known
that I was in no real danger--if he'd had any intention of killing me he would have
done so already. But I didn't, and so I shook. I felt I should nod, but couldn't manage.
The Dragaeran girl was almost up to us now, and I imagine the guy behind me
noticed her, because the blade was gone suddenly and I heard retreating footsteps.
I was shaking uncontrollably. The tall Dragaeran girl gently placed her hand on my
shoulder. I saw sympathy on her face. It was a look I had never before been given
from a Dragaeran, and it was, in its own way, as frightening as the experience I'd just
been through. I had an urge to fall forward into her arms, but I didn't let myself. I
became aware that she was speaking, softly, gently. "It's all right, they've left.
Nothing is going to happen. Just take it easy, you'll be fine..."
My father came storming in from the other room.
"Vlad!" he called, "what's going on around here? Why--"
He stopped. He saw the body. I heard him getting sick and I felt ashamed for him.
The hand on my shoulder tightened, then. I felt myself stop trembling, and looked at
the girl in front of me.
Girl? I really couldn't judge her age at all, but, being Dragaeran, she could be
anywhere from a hundred to a thousand years old. Her clothing was black and gray,
which I knew meant she was of House Jhereg. Her companion, who was now
approaching us, was also a Jhereg. The three who had been at the other table were of
the same House. Nothing of any significance there; it was mostly Jhereg, or an
occasional Teckla (each Dragaeran House bears the name of one of our native
creatures), who came into our restaurant.
Her companion stood behind her.
"Your name is Vlad?" she asked me.
I nodded.
"I'm Kiera," she said. I only nodded again. She smiled once more and turned to her
companion. They paid their bill and left. I went back to help clean up after the
murdered man--and my father.
"Kiera," I thought to myself, "I won't forget you."
When the Phoenix guards arrived some time later, I was in back, and I heard my
father telling them that, no, no one had seen what had happened, we'd all been in
back. But I never forgot the feel of a knife blade, as it is laid across the back of the
neck.
And for another instance...
I was sixteen, and walking alone through the jungles west of Adrilankha. The city
was somewhat more than a hundred miles away, and it was night. I was enjoying the
feeling of solitude, and even the slight fear within my middle as I considered the
possibility that I might run into a wild dzur, or a lyorn, or even, Verra preserve me, a
dragon.
The ground under my boots alternated between "crunch" and "squish." I didn't make
any effort to move quietly; I hoped that the noise I made would frighten off any beast
which would otherwise frighten me off. The logic of that escapes me now.
I looked up, but there was no break in the overcast that blankets the Dragaeran
Empire. My grandfather had told me that there was no such orange-red sky above his
Eastern homeland. He'd said that one could see stars at night, and I had seen them
through his eyes. He could open his mind to me, and did, often. It was part of his
method for teaching witchcraft; a method that brought me, at age sixteen, to the
jungles.
The sky lit the jungle enough for me to pick my way. I ignored the scratches on face
and arms from the foliage. Slowly, my stomach settled down from the nausea that had
hit when I had done the teleport that brought me here.
There was a good touch of irony there, too, I realized--using a Dragaeran sorcery to
bring me to where I could take the next step in learning witchcraft. I hitched the pack
on my back, and stepped into a clearing.
This one looked like it might do, I decided. There were heavy grasses for perhaps
forty feet in what was, very roughly, a circle. I walked around it, slowly and carefully,
my eyes straining to pick out details. All I needed now was to stumble into a
chreotha's net.
But it was empty, my clearing. I went to the middle of it and set my pack down. I dug
out a small black brazier, a bag of coals, a single black candle, a stick of incense, a
dead teckla, and a few dried leaves. The leaves were from the gorynth plant, which is
sacred to certain religions back East.
I carefully crumbled the leaves into a coarse powder; then I walked the perimeter of
the clearing and sprinkled it before me as I went.
I returned to the middle. I sat there for a time and went through the ritual of relaxing
each muscle of my body, until I was almost in a trance. With my body relaxed, my
mind had no choice but to follow. When I was ready, I placed the coals in the brazier,
slowly, one at a time. I held each one for a moment, feeling its shape and texture,
letting the soot rub off on my palms. With witchcraft, everything can be a ritual. Even
before the actual enchantment begins, the preparations should be made properly. Of
course, one can always just cast one's mind out, concentrating on the desired result,
and hope. The odds of success that way aren't very good. Somehow, when done the
right way, witchcraft is so much more satisfying than sorcery.
When the coals were in the brazier and placed just so, I put the incense among them.
Taking the candle, I stared long and hard at the wick, willing it to burn. I could,
certainly, have used a flint, or even sorcery, to start it, but doing it this way helped put
me into the proper frame of mind.
I guess the mood of the jungle night was conducive to witchcraft; it was only a few
minutes before I saw smoke rising from the candle, followed quickly by a small
flame. I was also pleased that I felt no trace of the mental exhaustion that
accompanies the completion of a major spell. There had been a time, not so long
before, when the lighting of a candle would have left me too weak even for psionic
communication.
I'm learning, Grandfather.
I used the candle, then, to start the coals burning, and laid my will upon it to get a
good fire going. When it was burning well, I planted the candle in the ground. The
scent of the incense, pleasantly sweet, reached my nostrils. I closed my eyes. The
circle of crushed gorynth leaves would prevent any stray animals from wandering by
and disturbing me. I waited.
After a time--I don't know how long--I opened my eyes again. The coals were
glowing softly. The scent of the incense filled the air. The sounds of the jungle did
not penetrate past the boundaries of the clearing. I was ready.
I stared deep into the coals and, timing my breathing, I spoke the chant--very slowly,
as I had been taught. As I said each word, I cast it, sending it out into the jungle as far
and as clearly as I could. It was an old spell, my grandfather had said, and had been
used in the East for thousands of years, unchanged.
I agonized over each word, each syllable, exploring it, letting my tongue and mouth
linger over and taste each of the sounds, and willing my brain to full understanding of
each of the thoughts I was sending. As each word left me, it was imprinted on my
consciousness and seemed to be a living thing itself.
The last sounds died out very slowly in the jungle night, taking a piece of me with
them.
Now, indeed, I felt exhausted. As always when doing a spell of this power, I had to
guard myself against falling into a deep trance. I breathed evenly, and deeply. As if
sleepwalking, I picked up the dead teckla, and moved it to the edge of the clearing,
where I could see it when I was sitting. Then I waited.
I believe it was only a few minutes later that I heard the flapping of wings near me. I
opened my eyes and saw a jhereg at the edge of the clearing, near the dead teckla,
looking at me.
We watched each other for a while, and then it tentatively moved up and took a small
bite from my offering.
It was of average size, if female; a bit large, if male. If my spell had worked, it would
be female. Its wing span was about the distance from my shoulder to my wrist, and it
was a bit less than that from its snakelike head to the tip of its tail. The forked tongue
flicked out over the rodent, tasting each piece before ripping off a small chunk,
chewing, and swallowing. It ate very slowly, watching me watching it.
When I saw that it was nearly done, I began to compose my mind for psionic contact,
and to hope.
Soon, it came. I felt a small, questing thought within me. I allowed it to grow. It
became distinct.
"What is it you want?" I "heard" with surprising clarity.
Now came the real test. If this jhereg had come as a result of my spell, it would be
female, with a nest of eggs, and what I was about to suggest wouldn't send it into an
attack rage. If it was just a jhereg who was passing by and saw some carrion lying
free for the taking, I could be in trouble. I had with me a few herbs which might
prevent me from dying of the jhereg's poison--but then, again, they might not.
"Mother," I thought back to it, as clearly as I could, "I would like one of your eggs."
It didn't attack me, and I picked up no feeling of puzzlement or outrage at the
suggestion. Good. My spell had brought her, and she would be at least receptive to
bargaining. I felt excitement growing in me and forced it down. I concentrated on the
jhereg before me. This part was almost a ritual in itself, but not quite. It all depended
on what the jhereg thought of me.
"What," she asked, "do you offer it?"
"I offer it long life," I answered. "And fresh, red meat without struggle, and I offer it
my friendship."
The animal considered this for a while, then said, "And what will you ask of it?"
"I will ask for aid in my endeavors, such as are in its power. I will ask for its wisdom,
and I will ask for its friendship."
For a time then, nothing happened. She stood there, above the skeletal remains of the
teckla, and watched me. Then she said, "I approach you."
The jhereg walked up to me. Its claws were long and sharp, but more useful for
running than for fighting. After a full meal, a jhereg will often find that it weighs too
much to become airborne and so must run to escape its enemies.
She stood before me and looked closely into my eyes. It was odd to see intelligence in
small, beady snake eyes, and to have nearly human-level communication with an
animal whose brain was no larger than the first joint of my finger. It seemed,
somehow, unnatural--which it was, but I didn't find that out for quite some time.
After a while, the jhereg "spoke" again.
"Wait here," she said. And she turned and spread her batlike wings. She had to run a
step or two before taking off, and then I was alone again.
Alone...
I wondered what my father would say, if he were alive to say anything. He wouldn't
approve, of course. Witchcraft was too "Eastern" for him, and he was too involved in
trying to be a Dragaeran.
My father died when I was fourteen. I never knew my mother, but my father would
occasionally mutter something about the "witch" he had married. Shortly before his
death, he squandered everything he had earned in forty years of running a restaurant
in an effort to become even more Dragaeran--he bought a title. Thus we became
citizens, and found ourselves linked to the Imperial Orb. The link allowed us to use
sorcery, a practice which my father encouraged. He found a sorceress from the Left
Hand of the Jhereg who was willing to teach me, and he forbade me to practice
witchcraft. Then he found a swordmaster who agreed to teach me Dragaeran-style
swordsmanship. My father forbade me to study Eastern fencing.
But my grandfather was still around. One day I explained to him that, even when I
was full-grown, I would be too short and too weak to be effective as a swordsman the
way I was being taught, and that sorcery didn't interest me. He never offered a word
of criticism about my father, but he began teaching me fencing and witchcraft.
When my father died, he was pleased that I was a skilled enough sorcerer to teleport
myself; he didn't know that teleports made me physically ill. He didn't know how
often I would use witchcraft to cover up the bruises left by Dragaeran punks, who
would catch me alone and let me know what they thought of Easterners with
pretensions. And he most certainly never knew that Kiera had been teaching me how
to move quietly, how to walk through a crowd as if I weren't there. I would use these
skills, too. I'd go out at night with a large stick, and I'd find one of my tormentors
alone, and leave him with a few broken bones.
I don't know. Perhaps if I'd worked a little harder at sorcery I'd have been good
enough to save my father. I just don't know.
After his death, it was easier to find time to study witchcraft and fencing, despite the
added work of running a restaurant. I started to get quite good as a witch. Good
enough, in fact, that my grandfather finally said that he couldn't teach me any more,
and gave me instructions in how to take the next step on my own. The next step, of
course, was...
She returned to the clearing, with a flapping of wings. This time she flew right up to
me, landing in front of my crossed legs. In her right claw, a small egg was clutched.
She extended it.
I forced down my excitement. It had worked! I held out my right hand, after making
sure it was steady. The egg dropped into it. I was somewhat startled by its warmth. It
was of a size that fit well into my palm. I carefully placed it inside my jerkin, next to
my chest.
"Thank you, mother," I thought to her. "May your life be long, your food plentiful, and
your children many."
"And you," she said, "long life and good hunting."
"I am not a hunter," I told her.
"You will be," she said. And then she turned from me, spread her wings, and flew out
from the clearing.
Twice in the following week I almost crushed the egg that I carried around next to my
chest. The first time I got into a fight with a couple of jerks from the House of the
Orca; and the second, I started to carry a box of spices against my chest while
working in the restaurant.
The incidents shook me up, I decided to make sure that nothing happened again that
would put the egg in danger. To protect myself against the former, I learned
diplomacy. And to take care of the latter, I sold the restaurant.
Learning diplomacy was the more difficult task. My natural inclinations didn't run
that way at all, and I had to be on my guard all the time. But, eventually, I found that I
could be very polite to a Dragaeran who was insulting me. Sometimes I think it was
that, more than anything else, which trained me to be successful later on.
Selling the restaurant was more of a relief than anything else. I had been running it on
my own since my father died, and doing well enough to make a living, but somehow I
never thought of myself as a restaurateur.
However, it did bring me up rather sharply against the problem of what I was going to
do for a living--both immediately and for the rest of my life. My grandfather offered
me a half-interest in his witchcraft business, but I was well aware that there was
hardly enough activity to keep him going alone. I also had an offer from Kiera, who
was willing to teach me her profession, but Easterner thieves don't get good prices
from Dragaeran fences. Besides, my grandfather didn't approve of stealing.
I sold the place with the problem still unresolved, and lived off the proceeds for a
while. I won't tell you what I got for it; I was still young. I moved into new quarters
then, too, since the place above the restaurant was going to be taken by the new
owner.
Also, I bought a blade. It was a rather light rapier, made to my measurements by a
swordsmith of House Jhereg, who overcharged me shamefully. It was just strong
enough to be able to counter the attacks of the heavier Dragaeran sword, but light
enough to be useful for the ripostes by which an Eastern fencer can surprise a
Dragaeran swordsman, who probably doesn't know anything beyond attack-defend-
attack.
Future unresolved, I sat back and tended my egg.
* * *
About two months after I had sold the restaurant, I was sitting at a card table, doing a
little low-stakes gambling at a place that allowed Easterners in. That night I was the
only human there, and there were about four tables in action.
I heard raised voices from the table next to me and was about to turn around, when
something crashed into my chair. I felt a momentary surge of panic as I almost
crushed the egg against the edge of the table, and I stood up. The panic transformed
itself to anger, and, without thinking, I picked up my chair and broke it over the head
of the guy who'd fallen into me. He dropped like a hawk and lay still. The guy who'd
pushed him looked at me as if deciding whether to thank me or attack me. I still had
the chair leg in my hand. I raised it, and waited for him to do something. Then a hand
gripped my shoulder and I felt a familiar coldness on the back of my neck.
"We don't need fighting in here, punk," said a voice behind my right ear. My
adrenalin was up, and I almost turned around to smash the bastard across the face,
despite the knife he held against me. But the training I'd been giving myself came to
the fore, and I heard myself saying, evenly, "My apologies, good sir. I assure you it
won't happen again." I lowered my right arm and dropped the chair leg. There was no
point in trying to explain to him what had happened if he hadn't seen it--and even less
if he had. When there's a problem, and an Easterner is involved, there is no question
about who is at fault. I didn't move.
Presently I felt the knife being taken off of my neck.
"You're right," said the voice. "It won't happen again. Get out of here and don't come
back."
I nodded once. I left my money on the table where it was, and walked out without
looking back.
I settled down somewhat on my way home. The incident bothered me. I shouldn't
have hit the guy at all, I decided. I had let my fear take over, and I reacted without
thinking. This would never do.
As I climbed up the stairs to my apartment, my mind returned to the old problem of
what I was going to do. I'd left almost a gold Imperial's worth of coins lying on the
table, and that was half a week's rent. It seemed that my only talents were witchcraft
and beating up Dragaerans. I didn't think that there was much of a market for either.
I opened the door and relaxed on the couch. I took out the egg, to hold it for a while
as a means of soothing my nerves--and stopped. There was a small crack in it. It must
have happened when I banged against the table, although I'd thought it had escaped
harm.
It was then and there, at the age of sixteen, that I learned the meaning of anger. A
sheet of white fire flashed through me, as I remembered the face of the Dragaeran
who had pushed the other into me, killing my egg. I learned that I was capable of
murder. I intended to seek out that bastard, and I was going to kill him. There was no
question in my mind that he was a dead man. I stood up and headed for the door, still
holding the egg--
--And stopped again.
Something was wrong. I had a feeling, which I couldn't pin down, that was getting
through the barrier of my anger. What was it? I looked down at the egg, and suddenly
understood in a burst of relief.
Although not consciously aware of it, I had somehow gotten a psionic link to the
being inside the egg. I was feeling something through it, on some level, and that
meant that my jhereg was still alive.
Anger drained from me as quickly as it had come, leaving me trembling. I went back
into the middle of the room and set the egg down on the floor, as softly as I could.
I felt along the link, and identified the emotion I was getting from it: determination.
Just raw, blind purpose. I had never been in contact with such singleness of aim. It
was startling that a thing that small could produce such high-powered emotion.
I stepped away from it, I suppose from some unreasoning desire to "give it air," and
watched. There was an almost inaudible "tap, tap," and the crack widened. Then,
suddenly, the egg split apart, and this ugly little reptile was lying amid broken shell
fragments. Its wings were tightly drawn up against it, and its eyes were closed. The
wings were no larger than my thumb.
It--It? He, I suddenly knew. He tried to move; failed. Tried to move again, and got
nowhere. I felt that I should be doing something, although I had no idea what. His
eyes opened, but didn't seem to focus on anything. His head lay on the floor, then
moved--pitifully.
I felt along my link to him, and now felt confusion and a little fear. I tried to send
back feelings of warmth, protection, and all that good stuff. Slowly, I walked up and
reached for him.
Surprisingly, he must have seen my motion. He obviously didn't connect the
movement with the thoughts he was getting from me, however, for I felt a quick burst
of fear, and he tried to move away. He failed and I picked him up--gingerly. I got two
things for this: my first clear message from him and my first jhereg bite. The bite was
too small, and the poison still too weak for it to affect me, but he was certainly in
possession of his fangs. The message was amazingly distinct.
"Mamma?" he said.
Right. Mamma. I thought that over for a while, then tried to send a message back.
"No, Daddy," I told him.
"Mamma," he agreed.
He stopped struggling and seemed to settle down in my hand. I realized that he was
exhausted and then realized that I was, too. Also, we were both hungry. At that point
it hit me--What the hell was I going to feed him? All the time I'd been carrying him,
I'd known that he was going to hatch someday, but it had never really sunk in that
there was actually going to be a real, live jhereg there.
I carried him into the kitchen and started hunting around. Let's see ... milk. We'll start
with that.
I managed to get out a saucer and pour a little milk into it. I set it down on the counter
and set the jhereg down next to it, his head actually in the saucer.
He lapped up a little and didn't seem to be having any trouble, so I scouted around a
little more and finally came up with a small piece of hawk wing. I placed it in the
saucer; he found it almost at once. He tore a piece off (he had teeth already--good)
and began chewing. He chewed it for close to three minutes before swallowing, but
when he did, it went down with no trouble. I relaxed.
After that, he seemed more tired than hungry, so I picked him up and carried him over
to the couch. I lay down and placed him on my stomach. I dozed off shortly
thereafter. We shared pleasant dreams.
The next day, someone came to my door and clapped, around mid-afternoon. When I
opened the door, I recognized the fellow immediately. He was the one who'd been
running the game the day before and had told me not to come back--with a knife held
against the back of my neck for added emphasis.
I invited him in, being the curious type.
"Thank you," he said. "I am called Nielar."
"Please sit down, my lord. I'm Vlad Taltos. Wine?"
"Thank you, but no. I don't expect to be staying very long."
"As you wish."
I showed him to a seat and sat down on the couch. I picked up my jhereg and held
him. Nielar arched his eyebrows, but didn't say anything.
"What can I do for you, then?" I asked.
摘要：

JheregBook1intheVladTaltosseriesByStevenBrustPrologueThereisasimilarity,ifImaybepermittedanexcursionintotenuousmetaphor,betweenthefeelofachillybreezeandthefeelofaknife'sblade,aseitherislaidacrossthebackoftheneck.Icancallupmemoriesofboth,ifIworkatit.Thechillybreezeisinvariablygoingtobethemorepleasant...

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