Brust,Steven - Vlad Taltos 03 - Teckla

Teckla

Book 3 in the Vlad Taltos series

By Steven Brust

This is the city: Adrilankha, Whitecrest.

The capital and largest city of the Dragaeran Empire contains all that makes up the

domain, but in greater concentration. All of the petty squabbles within the seventeen

Great Houses, and sometimes among them, become both more petty and more vicious

here. Dragonlords fight for honor, the Iorich nobles fight for justice, Jhereg nobles

fight for money, and Dzurlords fight for fun.

If, in the course of this squabbling, a law is broken, the injured party may appeal to

the Empire, which oversees the interplay of Houses with an impartiality that does

credit to a Lyorn judging a duel. But the organization that exists at the core of House

Jhereg operates illegally. The Empire is both unwilling and unable to enforce the laws

and customs governing this inner society. Yet, sometimes, these unwritten laws are

broken.

That's when I go to work. I'm an assassin.

Prologue

I found an oracle about three blocks down on Undauntra, a little out of my area. He

wore the blue and white of the House of the Tiassa, and worked out of a hole-in-the-

wall above a bakery, reached by climbing a long, knotted wooden stairway between

crumbling walls to a rotting door. The inside of the place was about right. Leave it at

that.

He wasn't busy, so I threw a couple of gold Imperials onto the table in front of him

and sat opposite him on a shoddy octagonal stool that matched his. He looked to be a

bit old, probably pushing fifteen hundred.

He glanced at the pair of jhereg riding my shoulders, but chose to pretend to be

unexcited. "An Easterner," he said. Brilliant. "And a Jhereg." The man was a genius.

"How may I serve you?"

"I have," I told him, "suddenly acquired more cash than I've ever dreamed of having.

My wife wants me to build a castle. I could buy a higher title in the Jhereg—I'm now

a baronet. Or I could use the money to expand my business. If I choose the latter, I

risk, in turn, competition problems. How serious will these be? That's my question."

He put his right arm on the table and rested his chin on it, drumming the tabletop with

the fingers of his left hand while staring up at me. He must have recognized me; how

many Easterners are there who are high up in the organization and wander around

with jhereg on their shoulders?

When he'd looked at me long enough to be impressive, he said, "If you try to expand

your business, a mighty organization will fall."

Well, la-dee-da. I leaned over the table and slapped him.

"Rocza wants to eat him, boss. Can she?"

"Maybe later, Loiosh. Don't bother me."

To the Tiassa, I said, "I have a vision of you with two broken legs. I wonder if it's a

true one?"

He mumbled something about sense of humor, and closed his eyes. After thirty

seconds or so, I saw sweat on his forehead. Then he shook his head and brought out a

deck of cards wrapped in blue velvet with his House insignia on them. I groaned. I

hate Card readers.

"Maybe he wants to play shereba," said Loiosh. I caught the faint psionic echo of

Rocza laughing.

The oracle looked apologetic. "I wasn't getting anything," he explained.

"All right, all right," I said. "Let's get on with it."

After we went through the ritual, he tried to explain all the oracular meanings the

Cards revealed to him. When I said, "Just the answers please," he looked hurt.

He studied the Mountain of Changes for a while, then said, "As far as I can see,

m'lord, it doesn't matter. What's going to happen doesn't depend on any action you're

going to take."

He gave me the apologetic look again. He must have practiced it. "That's the best I

can do."

Splendid. "All right," I said. "Keep the change." That was supposed to be a joke, but I

don't think he got it, so he probably still thinks I have no sense of humor.

I went back down the stairs and out onto Undauntra, a wide street packed full of craft

shops on the east side and sparsely settled with small homes on the west, making it

look oddly lopsided. About halfway back to my office, Loiosh said, "Someone's

coming, boss. Looks like muscle."

I brushed my hair back from my eyes with one hand and adjusted my cloak with the

other, allowing me to check a few concealed goodies. I felt tension in Rocza's grip on

my shoulder, but left it to Loiosh to calm her down. She was still new at this work.

"Only one, Loiosh?"

"Certain, boss."

"Okay."

About then, a medium-tall Dragaeran in the colors of House Jhereg (gray and black, if

you're taking notes) fell into stride next to me. Medium-tall in a Dragaeran, you

understand, made him a head and a half taller than I.

"Good afternoon, Lord Taltos," he said, pronouncing my name right.

I grunted back at him. His sword was light, worn at the hip, and clanked along

between us. His cloak was full enough to conceal dozens of the same kind of things

my cloak concealed sixty- three of.

He said, "A friend of mine would like to congratulate you on your recent successes."

"Thank him for me."

"He lives in a real nice neighborhood."

"I'm happy for him."

"Maybe you'd like to visit him sometime."

I said, "Maybe."

"Would you like to make plans for it?"

"Now?"

"Or later. Whatever's convenient for you."

"Where should we talk?"

"You name it."

I grunted again. In case that went too fast for you, this fellow had just informed me

that he was working for an individual who was very high up in the Organization, and

that said individual might want my services for something. In theory, it could be for

any of a number of things, but there's only one thing that I'm known to do freelance.

I took us a little further, until we were safely in my territory. Then I said, "All right,"

and steered us into an inn that jutted out a few feet onto Undauntra, and was one of

the reasons merchants with hand-carts hated this part of the street.

We found an unoccupied end of a long table, and I sat down across from him without

getting any splinters. Loiosh looked the place over for me and didn't say anything.

"I'm Bajinok," said my companion as the host brought us a bottle of fairly good wine

and a couple of glasses.

"Okay."

"My friend wants some 'work' done around his house."

I nodded. Work, said that way, means wanting someone killed. "I know people," I

said. "But they're all pretty busy right now." My last "work" had only been a few

weeks before, and was, let's say, highly visible. I didn't feel like doing any more just

then.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "This is just your style."

"I'm sure," I said. "But thank your friend for thinking of me. Another time, all right?"

"Okay," he said. "Another time."

He nodded to me, stood up, and left. And that should have been the end of it.

Verra, Demon-Goddess of my ancestors, may the water on thy tongue turn to ash.

That should have been the end of it.

Farmday

Leffero, Nephews and Niece, Launderers and Tailors Malak Circle fr: V. Taltos

Number 17, Garshos St.

Please do the following: gray knit cotton shirt: remove wine stain from rt sleeve,

black tallow from lft and repair cut in rt cuff.

1 pr gray trousers: remove blood stain from upper rt leg, klava stain from upper lft,

and dirt from knees.

1 pr black riding boots: remove reddish stain on toe of rt boot, and remove dust and

soot from both and polish.

1 gray silk cravat: repair cut, and remove sweat stains.

1 plain gray cloak: clean and press, remove cat hairs, brush to remove white particles,

remove honing-oil stains, and repair cut in lft side.

1 Pocket Handkerchief: clean and press

Expect delivery by Homeday next.

Yrs cordially,

V. Taltos, Brnt, Jhrg (His seal)

gray knit cotton shirt:

remove wine stain from right sleeve.

I stared out of the window onto streets I couldn't see and thought about castles. It was

night and I was home, and while I didn't mind sitting in a flat looking at a street I

couldn't see, I thought I might rather sit in a castle and look at a courtyard I couldn't

see.

My wife, Cawti, sat next to me, her eyes closed, thinking about something or other. I

sipped from a glass of a red wine that was too sweet. On top of a tall buffet was

perched Loiosh, my jhereg familiar. Next to him was Rocza, his mate. Your basic

conjugal scene.

I cleared my throat and said, "I visited an oracle last week."

She turned and stared at me. "You? Visiting an oracle? What's the world coming to?

About what?"

I answered her last question. "About what would happen if I took all that money and

plowed it into the business."

"Ah! That again. I suppose he told you something vague and mystical, like you'll be

dead in a week if you try."

"Not exactly." I told her about the visit. Her face lost its bantering look. I like her

bantering look. But then, I like most of her looks.

"What do you make of it?" she said when I was finished.

"I don't know. You take that stuff more seriously than I do; what do you make of it?"

She chewed her lower lip for a while. Around then Loiosh and Rocza left the buffet

and flew off down the hall, into a small alcove that was reserved for their privacy. It

gave me ideas which I suppressed, because I dislike having my actions suggested to

me by a flying reptile.

Finally, Cawti said, "I don't know, Vladimir. We'll have to wait and see, I guess."

"Yeah. Just something more to worry about. It's not as if we don't have enough—"

There was a thumping sound, as if someone were hitting the door with a blunt object.

Cawti and I were up at almost the same instant, myself with a dagger, she with a pair

of them. The wine glass I'd been holding dropped to the floor and I shook droplets off

my hand. We looked at each other and waited. The thumping sound was repeated.

Loiosh came tearing out of the alcove and came to rest on my shoulder, Rocza behind

him, complaining loudly. I started to tell him to shut her up, but Loiosh must have

because she became quiet. I knew this couldn't be a Jhereg attack, because the

Organization doesn't bother you at home, but I had made more than one enemy

outside of the Jhereg.

We moved toward the door. I stood on the side that would open, Cawti stood directly

in front of it. I took a deep breath, let it out, and put my hand on the handle. Loiosh

tensed. Cawti nodded. A voice from the other side said, "Hello? Is anyone there?"

I stopped.

Cawti's brows came together. She called out tentatively, "Gregory?"

The voice came back. "Yeah. Is that you, Cawti?"

She said, "Yes."

I said, "What the—?"

"It's all right," she said, but her voice lacked certainty and she didn't sheath her

daggers.

I blinked a couple of times. Then it occurred to me that Gregory was an Eastern name.

It was the Eastern custom to strike someone's door with your fist if you wanted to

announce yourself. "Oh," I said. I relaxed a bit. I called out, "Come in."

A man, as human as I, started to enter, saw us, and stopped. He was small, middle-

aged, about half bald, and startled. I suppose walking through a doorway to find three

weapons pointing at you would be enough to startle anyone who wasn't used to it.

I smiled. "Come on in, Gregory," I said, still holding my dagger at his chest. "Drink?"

"Vladimir," said Cawti, I suppose hearing the edge in my voice. Gregory didn't move

and didn't say anything.

"It's all right, Vladimir." Cawti told me directly.

"With whom?" I asked her, but I made my blade vanish and stood aside. Gregory

stepped past me a bit gingerly, but not handling himself too badly, all things

considered.

"I don't like him, boss," said Loiosh.

"Why not?"

"He's an Easterner; he ought to have a beard."

I didn't answer because I sort of agreed; facial hair is one of the things that sets us

apart from Dragaerans, which was why I grew a mustache. I tried to grow a beard

once, but Cawti threatened to shave it off with a rusty dagger after her second set of

whisker burns.

Gregory was shown to a cushion, sitting down in a way that made me realize that he

was prematurely balding rather than middle-aged. Cawti, weapons also gone, sat on

the couch. I brought out some wine, did a little cooling spell, and poured us each a

glass. Gregory nodded his thanks and sipped. I sat down next to Cawti.

"All right," I said. "Who are you?"

Cawti said, "Vlad…" Then she sighed. "Vladimir, this is Gregory. Gregory: my

husband, the Baronet of Taltos."

I saw perhaps the faintest of curl to his lip when she recited my title, and took an even

stronger dislike to him. I can sneer at Jhereg titles; that doesn't mean anyone else can

sneer at mine.

I said, "Okay. We all know each other. Now, who are you, and what are you doing

trying to knock down my door?"

His eyes flicked from Loiosh, perched on my right shoulder, to my face, to the cut of

my clothes. I felt like I was being examined. This did nothing to improve my temper.

I glanced over at Cawti. She bit her lip. She could tell I was becoming unhappy.

"Vladimir," she said.

"Hmmm?"

"Gregory is a friend of mine. I met him while visiting your grandfather a few weeks

ago."

"Go on."

She shifted uncomfortably. "There's a lot more to tell. I'd like to find out what he

wants first, if I may."

There was just the least bit of an edge to her voice, so I backed off.

"Should I take a walk?"

"Dunno. But thanks for asking. Kiss."

I looked at him and waited. He said, "Which question do you want me to answer

first?"

"Why don't you have a beard?"

"What?"

Loiosh hissed a laugh. "Never mind," I said. "What do you want here?"

He looked back and forth between Cawti and me, then fixed his glance on her and

said, "Franz was killed yesterday evening."

I glanced at my wife to see what effect this was having on her. Her eyes had widened

slightly. I held my tongue.

After a pair of breaths, Cawti said, "Tell me about it."

Gregory had the nerve to glance significantly in my direction. It almost got him hurt.

He must have decided that I was all right, though, because he said, "He was standing

at the door of the hall we'd rented, checking people, when someone just walked up to

him and cut his throat. I heard the commotion and ran down, but whoever it was had

vanished by the time I got there."

"Did anyone see him?"

"Not well. It was a Dragaeran though. They all-you-never mind. He was wearing

black and gray."

"Sounds professional," I remarked, and Gregory looked at me in a way that you ought

never to look at someone unless you are holding a blade at his throat. It was becoming

difficult to let these things pass.

Cawti glanced at me quickly, then stood up. "All right, Gregory," she said. "I'll speak

to you later."

He looked startled, and opened his mouth to say something, but Cawti gave him one

of those looks she gives me when I carry a joke too far. She saw him to the door. I

didn't stand up.

"All right," I said when she came back. "Tell me about it."

She studied me for a moment, as if looking at me for the first time. I knew enough not

to say anything. Presently she said, "Let's take a walk."

There was no time in my life up to that point when I was as filled with so many

strong, conflicting emotions as when we returned from that walk. No one, including

Loiosh, had spoken during the last ten minutes, when I had run out of sarcastic

questions and removed Cawti's need for terse, biting answers. Loiosh rhythmically

squeezed alternate talons on my right shoulder, and I was subliminally aware of this

and comforted by it. Rocza, who sometimes flies over our heads, sometimes rests on

my other shoulder, and sometimes rests on Cawti's, was doing the last. The

Adrilankhan air was cutting, and the endless lights of the city cast battling shadows

before our feet as I found and opened the door to the flat.

We undressed and went to bed speaking only as necessary and answering in

monosyllables. I lay awake for a long time, moving as little as possible so Cawti

wouldn't think I was lying awake. I don't know about her, but she didn't move much.

She arose before me the next morning and roasted, ground, and brewed the klava. I

helped myself to a cup, drank it, and walked over to the office. Loiosh was with me;

Rocza stayed behind. There was a cold, heavy fog in from the sea and almost no

breeze—giving what is called "assassin's weather," which is nonsense. I said hello to

Kragar and Melestav and sat down to brood and be miserable.

"Snap out of it, boss."

"Why?"

"Because you've got things to do."

"Like what?"

"Like finding out who shined the Easterner."

I thought that over for a moment. If you are going to have a familiar, it doesn't do to

ignore him. "All right, why?"

He didn't say anything, but presently memories began to present themselves for my

consideration. Cawti, as I'd seen her at Dzur Mountain after she had killed me (there's

a story there, but never mind); Cawti holding me after someone else tried to kill me;

Cawti holding a knife at Morrolan's throat and explaining how it was going to be,

while I sat paralyzed and helpless; Cawti's face the first time I had made love with

her. Strange memories, too—my emotions at the time, filtered through a reptilian

mind that was linked to my own.

"Stop it, Loiosh!"

"You asked."

I sighed. "I suppose I did. But why did she have to get involved in something like

that? Why—?"

"Why don't you ask her?"

"I did. She didn't answer."

"She would have if you hadn't been so—"

"I don't need advice on my marriage from a Verra-be-damned… no, I suppose I do,

don't I? All right. What would you do?"

"Ummm… I'd tell her that if I had two dead Teckla I'd give her one."

"You're a lot of help."

"Melestav!" I yelled. "Send Kragar in here."

"Right away, boss."

Kragar is one of those people who are just naturally unnoticeable. You could be

sitting in a chair looking for him and not realize that you were sitting in his lap. So I

concentrated hard on the door, and managed to see him come in.

"What is it, Vlad?"

"Open your mind, my man. I have a face to give to you."

"Okay."

He did, and I concentrated on Bajinok—the fellow I'd spoken with a few days before,

who had offered me "work" that would be "just my style." Could he have meant an

Easterner? Yeah, maybe. He had no way of knowing that to finalize an Easterner

would defeat the whole purpose of my having become an assassin in the first place.

Or would it? Something nasty in my mind made me remember a certain conversation

I'd recently had with Aliera, but I chose not to think about it.

"Do you know him?" I asked Kragar. "Who does he work for?"

"Yeah. He works for Herth."

"Ah ha."

"Ah ha?"

"Herth," I said, "runs the whole South Side."

"Where the Easterners live."

"Right. An Easterner was just killed. By one of us."

"Us?"said Loiosh. "Who is us?"

"A point. I'll think about it."

"What does that have to do with us?" asked Kragar, introducing another meaning of

us, just to confuse us. Excuse me.

I said, "I don't know yet, but—Deathgate, I do know. I'm not ready to talk about it yet.

Could you set me up a meeting with Herth?"

He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair and looked at me quizzically. It wasn't

usual for me to leave him in the dark about things like that, but he finally said,

"Okay," and left.

I took out a dagger and started flipping it. After a moment I said to Loiosh, "She still

could have told me about it."

"She tried. You weren't interested in discussing it."

"She could have tried harder."

"It wouldn't have come up if this hadn't happened. And it is her own life. If she wants

to spend half of it in the Easterners' ghetto, rabble-rousing, that's her—"

"It hardly sounds like rabble-rousing to me."

"Ah," said Loiosh.

Which shows how much good it is to try to get the better of your familiar.

I'd rather skip over the next couple of days, but as I had to live them, you can at least

put up with a sketch. For two solid days Cawti and I hardly exchanged a word. I was

mad that she hadn't told me about this group of Easterners, and she was mad because I

was mad. Once or twice I'd say something like, "If you'd—", then bite it back. I'd

notice that she was looking at me hopefully, but I'd only notice too late, and then I'd

stalk out of the room. Once or twice she'd say something like, "Don't you even

care—", and then stop. Loiosh, bless his heart, didn't say anything. There are some

things that even a familiar can't help you work out.

But it's a hell of a thing to go through days like that. It leaves scars.

Herth agreed to meet me at a place I own called The Terrace. He was a quiet little

Dragaeran, only half a head taller than I, with an almost bashful way of dropping his

eyes. He came in with two enforcers. I also had two, a fellow who was called Sticks

because he liked to beat people with them, and one named Glowbug, whose eyes

would light up at the oddest times. The enforcers found good positions for doing what

they were paid for.

Herth took my suggestion and ordered the pepper-sausage, which is better tasted than

described.

As we were finishing up our Eastern-style desert pancakes (which, really, no one

should make except Valabar's, but these were all right), Herth said, "So what can I do

for you?"

I said, "I have a problem."

He nodded, dropping his eyes again as if to say, "Oh, how could little me help

someone like you?"

I went on, "There was an Easterner finalized a few days ago, by a professional. It

happened in your area, so I was wondering if, maybe, you could tell me a bit about

what happened, and why."

Now, there were several possible answers he could have given me. He could have

explained as much as he knew about it, he could have smiled and claimed ignorance,

he could have asked me what my interest was. Instead, he looked at me, stood up, and

said, "Thanks for the dinner; I'll see you again, maybe." Then he left.

I sat there for a while, finishing my klava. "What do you make of that, Loiosh?"

"I don't know, boss. It's funny that he didn't ask why you wanted to find out. And if he

knows, why did he agree to the meeting in the first place?"

"Right," I said.

I signed the bill and left, Sticks and Glowbug preceding me out of the place. When we

reached the office I told them to take off. It was evening, and I was usually done by

that time, but I didn't feel like going back home just then. I changed weapons, just to

kill time. Changing weapons is something I do every two or three days so that no

weapon is around my person enough to pick up my aura. Dragaeran sorcery can't

identify auras, but Eastern witchcraft can, and should the Empire ever decide to

Brust, Steven - Vlad Taltos 03 - Teckla

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