Jhegaala (Vlad Taltos)Steven Brust
Confrontations out East
I gave the guy the sort of smile that means nothing and said, “This is a local Guild, or is it part of a larger Guild throughout the country?”
He gave me what I’m sure he thought was a Penetrating Stare. “Why would you want to know that?”
“Why do you want to know that?” Loiosh thought at me.
It was interesting, though. Last night, there was someone who had just assumed I was an aristocrat; and now this guy just assumed I was some sort of thug, or criminal. I hate it when people make those kind of assumptions about me. It makes me want to break their legs.
I said, “Does the name Merss mean anything to you?”
His scowl deepened. “Are you threatening me?”
“I don’t respond to threats, young man.”
“That’s good, because I don’t issue them.”
“I think you had best leave my establishment.”
Establishment. He had an establishment.
I shrugged and walked out because I didn’t think staying would be productive, and because that was probably the last thing he expected me to do.
“That,” I told Loiosh, “was one of the more interesting conversations I’ve had in a life full of interesting conversations.”
“Meaning you have no idea what just happened, right?”
“Right. Only something did. Didn’t it?”
“Sure, Boss. Is there a reason you think it might be connected with what you’re looking for?”
“Loiosh, I mentioned the name of my family and he thought I was threatening him.”
He didn’t answer.
BOOKS BY STEVEN BRUST
THE DRAGAERAN NOVELS
THE KHAAVREN ROMANCES
The Phoenix Guards
Five Hundred Years After
The Viscount of Adrilankha,
The Paths of the Dead,
The Lord of Castle Black,
THE VLAD TALTOS NOVELS
To Reign in Hell
The Sun, the Moon, and the Stars
Cowboy Feng’s Space Bar and Grille
The Gypsy (with Megan Lindholm
Freedom and Necessity (with Emma Bull)
A TOM DOHEETY ASSOCIATES BOOK
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2008 by Steven Brust
All rights reserved.
Edited by Teresa Nielsen Hayden
Diagram copyright © 2007 by Kere’sa “Silver” Croft
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
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New York, NY 10010
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
First Edition: July 2008
First Mass Market Edition: July 2009
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Anika and Miklos
Incubation time is short—eight or nine days—during which the egg is vulnerable. While the mother is able to protect the eggs after completing her metamorphosis (see Chapter 19), that still leaves between thirty-five and forty hours during which the eggs would be entirely without protection, were it not for the help of a male who has undergone his own metamorphosis after fertilizing the eggs (see Chapter 18) and now returns, as it were, to stand guard while the mother is helpless, as will be covered in more detail during the discussion of the levidopt.
It must be stressed that it is not, in particular, the father who returns to guard the eggs, but rather the first unattached male levidopt to pass within fifty feet or so of the transforming mother. Exactly how the male levidopt finds the eggs …
—Oscaani: Fauna of the Middle South: A Brief Survey, Volume 6, Chapter 15
L E F I T T: But, my dear, what does it do?
B O R A A N: Why, nothing, of course. It just lies there. That’s the beauty of it.
—Miersen, Six Parts Water
Day One, Act II, Scene 4
There is a place in the mountain called Saestara where, according to the locals, you can look east and see the past, and look west and see the future. I suppose it has its origins in some migration in pre-history, or some invasion, or some mystical rubbish built of thin air—plenty of that in the mountains, at any rate. I don’t know, but the locals seem to believe it.
And, if it’s true, I was going backward. Looking west, I remembered lots of painful scrabbling up paths that were made by and for mountain goats; looking east, I foresaw more of the same going down.
Some distance behind me was a lake called Szurke, on the edge of a forest. I owned the lake and a little bit of the forest and the big manor house near it, courtesy of the Empire and thanks to “extraordinary service.” That’s a laugh. I didn’t dare stay there, courtesy of the House of the Jhereg and thanks to “extraordinary misdeeds.” That’s not such a laugh.
I’d installed my grandfather as regent. As I told him, “I prefer nepotism to despotism.” He hadn’t been amused; he didn’t much like the idea of being a despot himself, having pretty much always hated the aristocracy with a sort of mild dispassionate hate that had its origins in a past of which I’d never gotten more than hints.
He and I had both been worried during my visit. He was worried because the poaching in his part of the forest had gotten out of hand when the poachers realized he didn’t have the heart to enforce the laws against it. I was worried that the Jhereg might be mad enough at me to take it out on him. I didn’t think they would—what I’d done hadn’t been as bad as, say, giving evidence to the Empire—but it caused me some concern.
We talked about that, and Noish-pa wasn’t worried. The Jhereg is capable, perhaps, of making use of a human witch, no matter how much they scorn the magic of “Easterners,” but they’d be hard pressed to find one as skilled as my grandfather. And give him a little time with all the animals, and even the trees and plants in this area, and he would create a security network and defensive perimeter I’d defy Mario to break through.
We had a long talk about the trouble I was in, and his troubles with poachers (which translated to hating having to tell anyone what to do), and where I was going to go from here. He didn’t want to know, because he figured that what he didn’t know the Jhereg couldn’t force him to tell. I was going to explain that the Jhereg didn’t do things like that, but, well, sometimes they do.
I played with Ambrus, his familiar; and Noish-pa and Loiosh, my familiar, got reacquainted. I stayed for a week and he cooked for me and we talked about many things, especially how he could continue as regent without actually running anything. We came up with some ideas to at least cut down on the orders he would have to give, and he seemed happy.
/> One night, over Fenarian brandy, I said, “Noish-pa, is there anything you can tell me about my mother?”
He sighed. “She studied the Art, Vladimir, and that made my son, may he find peace, unhappy. And so I saw her little.”
“You know how your father felt about the Art, Vladimir. He didn’t want the two of us speaking of it. I hardly saw my son after his marriage, save when he brought you over after your mother passed on. I wish I could tell you what she was like, Vladimir. I remember she had a kind face and a soft voice, yes?”
I nodded; that much was more than I’d had before.
He said, “You know that, like me, she was not long in this land of elfs. I came from Fenario when—when I had to leave. But her father came, either before she was born, or when she was only in arms.”
“Why did he leave?”
“She never said.”
I nodded. “What was her name? I mean, before she was married?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “No—” He frowned. “Yes, I may know at that. A moment, Vladimir, while I search.”
He left the room—a cozy little alcove that Noish-pa had turned into his library—and was gone for about half an hour. When he returned, he was holding a piece of parchment-cloth. He said, “I had this note of her. I have often puzzled over it.”
I took it. It smelled the way cloth gets to smell when it’s been in a drawer for years and years; it had yellowed a little. I studied it and frowned. “You can’t read it either?”
“Oh, I can read it, Vladimir. It is a runic writing that is very, very old in Fenario. Some say it goes back to before the Fenarians settled there. It is still sometimes found in old tomes of the Art, which is why I learned it. I should have taught you.”
“Well, if you can read it, what’s the puzzle?”
He smiled the smile I knew so well: eyes twinkling with secrets that were fun, rather than secrets that could cut. He took it back; he had to hold it just a little farther away from his eyes than he had a few years before. He cleared his throat and read: “Father, the food was good and the evening delightful. Please accept my thanks on behalf of myself and Pishta. We both very much look forward to seeing you again. With love, Marishka Merss Taltos.”
“Merss,” I said.
Then I frowned. “Wait. What is puzzling about it?”
“Eh, Vladimir? You tell me.” His eyes were twinkling again.
“Umm,” I said. “Well, is it what it seems? I mean, did it come after a meal?”
“Then what—oh.” It took me a moment, but I got it; first one piece, then the other. “In the first place, why did she use her full name when writing a thank-you note? In the second, why write a thank-you note in an ancient runic script?”
He nodded. “I still wonder.”
I said, “Do you remember the dinner?”
“Oh, yes. Not often did your father visit me at that time.”
“Was my mother pregnant when she wrote that?”
He frowned and his eyes narrowed and shifted up and to the right as his memory worked. After a moment he nodded.
I smiled. “It was meant for me, Noish-pa. To answer my questions, in case I lived and she died. She knew my father—”
He was grinning and nodding. “Yes. It must be!”
“I wonder where she was from?” I said.
He shrugged. “Merss, it is not a common name. Do you know its meaning?”
I shook my head.
“Pulper,” he said. “And what is a pulper?”
“Um, it has something to do with wood. With making paper out of wood, I think.”
He nodded and frowned. “I know of a town where much paper came from, in the west of Fenario where the River of Faerie is young and strong. Burz, it is called.”
I laughed. “Burz? They named their town Burz?”
“Eh, perhaps making paper makes not such a pretty smell?”
“Maybe,” I said.
A town called Burz with a paper factory and a bad smell, on the River—that was where my mother might have come from. And me with nothing to do except stay out of the clutches of the Jhereg. There would be all sorts of advantages to going East to the homeland of my mother and father. For one thing, a Dragaeran would stand out there even more than I stood out among the Dragaerans. For another, I had the strong feeling that they were going to use a Morganti weapon on me. And bringing such a weapon in among a group of witches would alert every one of them within a quarter of a mile. There are special sheaths made to conceal the effects of such a blade from a sorcerer—I knew, I’d used them a couple of times. But even if it were possible to construct a sheath to hide the psychic emanations a witch would feel, the Jhereg wouldn’t know how to go about it. In fact, they might well not even be aware they needed to.
No question, it would be safer for me in the East.
And I could find my mother’s family.
The conversation passed on to other things, and I never told him I was going East, but over the next several days I received lectures, in the same tones I remembered from when I was studying the Art, about Eastern customs, the political structures of Fenario, and the culture. He also began speaking Fenarian and demanded I did, too. He was very picky about my pronunciation, and even pickier about my accent.
Guilds and Covens.
We talked a lot about Guilds and Covens, and it was good that we did, because—but no, I’m getting ahead of myself. But I’ll tell you some of it now, so that later you’ll understand. Well, understand at least as well as I did, which wasn’t very.
Guilds, I was told, were for trades—craftsmen—and were a means to have some way of defending themselves against the merchants who often sold their goods as middlemen. In some parts of Fenario, the craftsmen sold things directly, so there were fewer Guilds. In other parts, there were Guilds that took in large areas (well, relatively large; Fenario itself is a pretty small kingdom by my standards).
And nearly every town, no matter how small, had its Coven, occasionally open, but more often with its members secret. The Coven functioned as a Guild for witches, sometimes combining their powers into common spells, sometimes simply using the threat of their abilities to look out for the members’ interests.
I asked him, “Are all witches usually members?”
“Vladimir, in Fenario, there are, ah, well, nearly all peasants know some little spell or another.”
“Then who joins a Coven?”
“Those who use the Art a great deal. Many will sell their services, you know. And others, who gather and prepare the herbs.”
“Like you. You’d be in a Coven if you were back there.”
He nodded. “Many places, you can’t help it. Those who do not join, but should …” He trailed off, leaving to my imagination what a Coven might do to an individual witch they didn’t like.
“Is there ever more than one Coven?”
“Not for long,” he said.
Guilds and Covens, Covens and Guilds. Yeah, it’s a good thing he took the time to explain those to me.
We drank more brandy and ate more food, and finally, the day after Spring Balance day, I embraced him and said good-bye, which was how it came to be that I stood in the pass of Saestara, looking behind me into the future and before me into the past.
Below, at some vague point, was the end of the Empire, and the border of Fenario, land of ignorance and knowledge, superstition and science. Okay, well, maybe not so much with the science. But what do you call it when the superstitions might be true?
Loiosh on my right shoulder, Rocza on my left, I started down the mountain.
This stage will last from the moment of hatching until the layer of fat has been entirely consumed—usually four to five weeks. During this period, the apoptera, its fins fully grown by the time it has hatched, will remain en
tirely in the water while its basic organs develop. Curiously, the last of these is sight; the apoptera is blind until nearly the moment of transformation. Indeed, it is speculated by some natural philosophers (cf. Hidna, Corventra) that it is the first sensation of light that triggers its metamorphosis….
Much remains unknown about the memory of the apoptera. Most of the assumptions in previous work about the “astonishing memory” at this stage are based on Leroni’s work documenting its determination to explore every corner of its limited world. While its inquisitive nature cannot be denied, it has never been positively established that there is any memorization as such that carries on to later stages. Indeed, there is some indication to the contrary (see Appendix D this volume).
—Oscaani: Fauna of the Middle South: A Brief Survey,
Volume 6, Chapter 16
B O R A A N : A candle! As you love the Gods, a candle!
N U R S E: But we have no candles!
B O R A A N : How, no candles?
N U R S E: They were all burned up in the flood.
D A G L E R: Permit me to sell you this beeswax.
[Boraan strikes Dagler with candlestick]
[Exit Dagler, holding his head]
—Miersen, Six Parts Water
Day One, Act IV, Scene 4
The transition from mountain to forest was so gradual, I wasn’t entirely sure I was out of the mountains for a while even after I had turned north; and this in spite of them towering over me to my left. But eventually, I became convinced that I wasn’t getting much lower, and soon enough, there was no question that I was in deep woods, with trees I can’t name so close together I sometimes had to squeeze past them and with branches so low I had to duck to avoid getting hit in the face. The combination seemed unfair.